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<table summary="title" width="100%" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td width="50%"><h1><i>Georgian Poetry</i></h1>
<br>
<br>
<b>1918-19<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
edited by<br>
<br>
Sir Edward Howard Marsh<br>
<br><br>
1919</b>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
</td>
<td width="50%"><br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<span style="color: #A82C28"><br>
<br>
<br>
<br><br>
Eighth Thousand<br>
<br>
The Poetry Bookshop<br>
35 Devonshire St. Theobalds Rd.<br>
London W.C.1<br><br>
MCMXVIII<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<i><b>To Thomas Hardy</b></i>
</span>
</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<p><b><a name="toc">Table of Contents</a></b></p>
<table summary="Beagle" cellspacing="10" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul>
<li><a href="#introduction">Prefatory Note</a></li></ul></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Lascelles Abercrombie</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#witchc"><i>Witchcraft: New Style</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Gordon Bottomley</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#littleh"><i>Littleholme</i></a></td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Francis Brett Young</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#invoke"><i>Invocation</i></a><br>
<a href="#prothal"><i>Prothalamion</i></a> <br>
<a href="#febr"><i>February</i></a><br>
<a href="#lochan"><i>Lochanilaun</i></a><br>
<a href="#lettrm"><i>Lettermore</i></a><br>
<a href="#songy"><i>Song</i></a><br>
<a href="#leanelm"><i>The Leaning Elm</i></a></td>
<td>(from <i>Poems</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>William H. Davies</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#lovdam"><i>Lovely Dames </i></a><br>
<a href="#yonfull"><i>When Yon Full Moon</i></a><br>
<a href="#woodharps"><i>On Hearing Mrs. Woodhouse Play the Harpsichord</i></a><br>
<a href="#birds"><i>Birds</i></a><br>
<a href="#swcont"><i>Oh, Sweet Content!</i></a><br>
<a href="#chpet"><i>A Child's Pet</i></a><br>
<a href="#england"><i>England</i></a><br>
<a href="#belld"><i>The Bell</i></a></td>
<td>
(from <i>Forty New Poems</i>)<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
(from <i>Forty New Poems</i>)<br>
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Walter de la Mare</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#sunkgar"><i>The Sunken Garden</i></a><br>
<a href="#moonlit"><i>Moonlight</i></a><br>
<a href="#tryst"><i>The Tryst</i></a><br>
<a href="#linnet"><i>The Linnet</i></a><br>
<a href="#veil"><i>The Veil</i></a><br>
<a name="cp2"></a><a href="#3stran"><i>The Three Strangers </i></a><br>
<a href="#oldmen"><i>The Old Men</i></a><br>
<a href="#farewell"><i>Fare Well</i></a></td>
<td>(from <i>Motley</i>)<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
(from <i>Motley</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>John Drinkwater</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#deer"><i>Deer</i></a><br>
<a href="#moonapp"><i>Moonlit Apples</i></a><br>
<a href="#southbell"><i>Southampton Bells</i></a><br>
<a href="#chorusd"><i>Chorus</i></a><br>
<a href="#habit"><i>Habitation </i></a><br>
<a href="#passage"><i>Passage</i></a></td><td><br>
(from <i>Loyalties</i>)<br>
(from <i>Tide</i>)<br>
(from <i>Loyalties</i>)<br>
(from <i>Lincoln</i>)<br>
(from <i>Loyalties</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>John Freeman</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#musediv"><i>O Muse Divine </i></a><br>
<a href="#wakers"><i>The Wakers</i></a><br>
<a href="#bodyf"><i>The Body</i></a><br>
<a href="#10nomore"><i>Ten O'clock No More</i></a><br>
<a href="#fugitive"><i>The Fugitive</i></a><br>
<a href="#alde"><i>The Alde </i></a><br>
<a href="#nearf"><i>Nearness </i></a><br>
<a href="#nightf"><i>Night and Night </i></a><br>
<a href="#herdf"><i>The Herd </i></a></td><td><br>
(from <i>Memories of Childhood</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#wingsg"><i>Wings</i></a><br>
<a href="#parrotsg"><i>The Parrots</i></a><br>
<a href="#cakewalkg"><i>The Cakewalk</i></a><br>
<a href="#driftwg"><i>Driftwood</i></a><br>
<a href="#quietg"><i>Quiet</i></a><br>
<a href="#revg"><i>Reveille</i></a></td><td>(from <i>Home</i>)<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
(from <i>Home</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Robert Graves</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#ballnurs"><i>A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme</i></a><br>
<a href="#frostnigh"><i>A Frosty Night</i></a><br>
<a href="#truejon"><i>True Johnny</i></a><br>
<a href="#cupb"><i>The Cupboard</i></a><br>
<a href="#beatdrow"><i>The Voice of Beauty Drowned</i></a><br>
<a name="cp3"></a><a href="#rockacre"><i>Rocky Acres</i></a></td><td>(from <i>Country Sentiment</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>D. H. Lawrence</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#qurtime"><i>Seven Seals</i></a></td><td><br>
<br>
(from <i>New Poems</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Harold Monro</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#gravitym"><i>Gravity</i></a><br>
<a href="#golfm"><i>Goldfish</i></a><br>
<a href="#dogm"><i>Dog</i></a><br>
<a href="#nightnearm"><i>The Nightingale Near the House</i></a><br>
<a href="#mancarr"><i>Man Carrying Bale</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Thomas Moult</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#4bessiegar"><i>For Bessie in the Garden</i></a><br>
<a href="#truebed"><i>'Truly he hath a Sweet Bed'</i></a><br>
<a href="#lovlane"><i>Lovers' Lane </i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Robert Nichols</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#spriglime"><i>The Sprig of Lime</i></a><br>
<a href="#17n"><i>Seventeen</i></a><br>
<a href="#strangen"><i>The Stranger</i></a><br>
<a href="#onightn"><i>'O Nightingale my Heart'</i></a><br>
<a href="#pilgrimn"><i>The Pilgrim</i></a></td><td></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>J. D. C. Fellow</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#templef"><i>The Temple</i></a></td>
<td>from <i>Child Lovers</i></td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Siegfried Sassoon</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#sickleave"><i>Sick Leave </i></a><br>
<a href="#banishs"><i>Banishment</i></a><br>
<a href="#repress"><i>Repression of War Experience</i></a><br>
<a href="#doesits"><i>Does it Matter</i></a><br>
<a href="#concerts"><i>Concert Party</i></a><br>
<a href="#songwar"><i>Songbooks of the War</i></a><br>
<a href="#portrait"><i>The Portrait</i></a><br>
<a href="#thrush"><i>Thrushes</i></a><br>
<a href="#everys"><i>Everyone Sang</i></a></td><td>(from <i>War Poems</i>)<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>(from <i>War Poems</i>)
</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Edward Shanks</li>
</ul></td><td><a name="cp4"></a><a href="#nightps"><i>A Night-Piece</i></a><br>
<a href="#absents"><i>In Absence</i></a><br>
<a href="#gloworm"><i>The Glow-worm</i></a><br>
<a href="#cataclysm"><i>The Cataclysm</i></a><br>
<a href="#holelms"><i>A Hollow Elm</i></a><br>
<a href="#festgal"><i>Fête Galante </i></a><br>
<a href="#songes"><i>Song</i></a></td><td>(from <i>The Queen of China</i>)<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>(from <i>The Queen of China</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>Fredegond Shove</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#dreames"><i>A Dream in Early Spring</i></a><br>
<a href="#worldsh"><i>The World</i></a><br>
<a href="#newgh"><i>The New Ghost</i></a><br>
<a href="#dreamcreate"><i>A Man Dreams that he is the Creator</i></a></td>
<td>(from <i>Dreams and Journeys</i>)</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>J. C. Squire</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#riverss"><i>Rivers</i></a><br>
<a href="#epitold"><i>Epitaph in Old Mode</i></a><br>
<a href="#sonsq"><i>Sonnet</i></a><br>
<a href="#birdsq"><i>The Birds </i></a></td><td>(from <i>Poems, First Series</i>)<br>
<br>
(from <i>Poems, First Series</i>)<br>
(from <i>The Birds and Other Poems</i>)
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li>W. J. Turner</li>
</ul></td><td><a href="#silentwj"><i>Silence</i></a><br>
<a href="#kentwar"><i>Kent in War</i></a><br>
<a href="#talksold"><i>Talking with Soldiers</i></a><br>
<a href="#songwj"><i>Song </i></a><br>
<a href="#princwj"><i>The Princess </i></a><br>
<a href="#peacwj"><i>Peace </i></a><br>
<a href="#deathwj"><i>Death </i></a></td><td>(from <i>The Dark Fire</i>)
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top"><td><ul><li><a href="#biblio">Bibliography</a></li>
</ul></td><td></td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<br>
<hr>
<br>
<br>
<h2><a name="introduction">Prefatory Note</a></h2>
<br>
This is the fourth volume of the present series. I hope it may be
thought to show that what for want of a better word is called Peace has
not interfered with the writing of good poetry.<br>
<br>
Thanks and acknowledgements are due to Messrs. Beaumont, Blackwell,
Collins, Constable, Fifield, Heinemann, Seeker, Selwyn & Blount, and
Sidgwick & Jackson; and to the Editors of <i>The Anglo-French Review,
The Athenæum, The Chapbook, Land and Water, The Nation, The New
Statesman, The New Witness, The New World, The Owl, The Spectator,
To-day, Voices,</i> and <i>The Westminster Gazette.</i><br>
<br>
E. M.<br>
<br>
September 1919.
<br>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="witchc">Lascelles Abercrombie</a></h2>
<br>
<h3><i>Witchcraft: New Style</i></h3>
<blockquote>The sun drew off at last his piercing fires.<br>
Over the stale warm air, dull as a pond<br>
And moveless in the grey quieted street,<br>
Blue magic of a summer evening glowed.<br>
The sky, that had been dazzling stone all day,<br>
Hollowed in smooth hard brightness, now dissolved<br>
To infinite soft depth, and smoulder'd down<br>
Low as the roofs, dark burning blue, and soared<br>
Clear to that winking drop of liquid silver,<br>
The first exquisite star. Now the half-light<br>
Tidied away the dusty litter parching<br>
Among the cobbles, veiled in the colour of distance<br>
Shabby slates and brickwork mouldering, turn'd<br>
The hunchback houses into patient things<br>
Resting; and golden windows now began.<br><br>
A little brisk grey slattern of a woman,<br>
Pattering along in her loose-heel'd clogs,<br>
Pushed the brass-barr'd door of a public-house;<br>
The spring went hard against her; hand and knee<br>
Shoved their weak best. As the door poised ajar,<br>
Hullabaloo of talking men burst out,<br>
A pouring babble of inflamed palaver,<br>
And overriding it and shouted down<br>
High words, jeering or downright, broken like<br>
Crests that leap and stumble in rushing water.<br>
Just as the door went wide and she stepped in,<br>
'She cannot do it!' one was bawling out:<br>
A glaring hulk of flesh with a bull's voice.<br>
He finger'd with his neckerchief, and stretched<br>
His throat to ease the anger of dispute,<br>
Then spat to put a full stop to the matter.<br><br>
The little woman waited, with one hand<br>
Propping the door, and smiled at the loud man.<br>
They saw her then; and the sight was enough<br>
To gag the speech of every drinker there:<br>
The din fell down like something chopt off short.<br>
Blank they all wheel'd towards her, with their mouths<br>
Still gaping as though full of voiceless words.<br>
She let the door slam to; and all at ease,<br>
Amused, her smile wrinkling about her eyes,<br>
Went forward: they made room for her quick enough.<br>
Her chin just topt the counter; she gave in<br>
Her bottle to the potboy, tuckt it back,<br>
Full of bright tawny ale, under her arm,<br>
Rapt down the coppers on the planisht zinc,<br>
And turned: and no word spoken all the while.<br><br>
The first voice, in that silent crowd, was hers,<br>
Her light snickering laugh, as she stood there<br>
Pausing, scanning the sawdust at her feet.<br>
Then she switcht round and faced the positive man<br>
Whose strong 'She cannot do it!' all still felt<br>
Huskily shouting in their guilty ears.<br><br>
'She can't, eh? She can't do it? ' — Then she'd heard!<br><br>
The man, inside his ruddy insolent flesh,<br>
Had hoped she did not hear. His barrel chest<br>
Gave a slight cringe, as though the glint of her eyes<br>
Prickt him. But he stood up to her awkwardly bold,<br>
One elbow on the counter, gripping his mug<br>
Like a man holding on to a post for safety.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Man:</i>
<blockquote>You can't do what's not nature: nobody can.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i><blockquote> And louts like you have nature in your pocket?</blockquote><br>
<i>The Man:</i>
<blockquote>I don't say that — </blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i> <blockquote>If you kept saying naught, No one would guess the fool you are.</blockquote><br>
<i>Second Man:</i>
<blockquote> Almost <br>
My very words!</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>O you're the knowing man! <br>
The spark among the cinders!</blockquote><br>
<i>First Man:</i>
<blockquote> You can't fetch <br>
A free man back, unless he wants to come.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>Nay, I'll be bound he doesn't want to come!</blockquote><br>
<i>Third Man: </i>
<blockquote>And he won't come: he told me flat he wouldn't.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>Are you there too?</blockquote><br>
<i>Third Man:</i>
<blockquote>And if he does come back <br>
It will be devilry brought him.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>I shall bring him; — <br>
Tonight.</blockquote><br>
<i>First Man:</i>
<blockquote>How will he come?</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>Running: unless <br>
He's broke his leg, and then he'll have to come <br>
Crawling: but he will come.</blockquote><br>
<i>First Man:</i>
<blockquote>How do you know <br>
What he may choose to do, three counties off?</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>He choose?</blockquote><br>
<i>Third Man:</i>
<blockquote>You haven't got him on a lead.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>Haven't I though!</blockquote><br>
<i>Second Man:</i>
<blockquote>That's right; it's what I said.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>Ay, there are brains in your family.</blockquote><br>
<i>First Man:</i>
<blockquote>You have <br>
Some sort of pull on him, to draw him home?</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote> You may say that: I have hold of his mind.<br>
And I can slack it off or fetch it taut.<br>
And make him dance a score of miles away<br>
An answer to the least twangling thrum<br>
I play on it. He thought he lurkt at last<br>
Safely; and all the while, what has he been?<br>
An eel on the end of a night line; and it's time<br>
I haul'd him in. You'll see, to-night I'll land him.</blockquote><br>
<i>Third Man:</i>
<blockquote>Bragging's a light job.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>You daren't let me take<br>
Your eyes in mine! — Haul, did I say? no need:<br>
I give his mind a twitch, and up he comes<br>
Tumbling home to me. Whatever work he's at,<br>
He drops the thing he holds like redhot iron<br>
And runs — runs till he falls down like a beast<br>
Pole-axt, and grunts for breath; then up and on,<br>
No matter does he know the road or not:<br>
The strain I put on his mind will keep him going<br>
Right as a homing-pigeon.</blockquote><br>
<i>First Man: </i>
<blockquote>Devilry I call it.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>And you're welcome.</blockquote><br>
<i>Second Man:</i>
<blockquote>But the law should have a say here.</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote> What, isn't he mine,<br>
My own? There's naught but what I please about it.</blockquote><br>
<i>Third Man: </i>
<blockquote>Why did you let him go?</blockquote><br>
<i>The Woman:</i>
<blockquote>To fetch him back!<br>
For I enjoy this, mind. There's many a one<br>
Would think, to see me, There goes misery!<br>
There's a queer starveling for you! — and I do<br>
A thing that makes me like a saint in glory,<br>
The life of me the sound of a great tune<br>
Your flesh could never hear: I can send power<br>
Delighting out of me! O, the mere thought<br>
Has made my blood go smarting in my veins,<br>
Such a flame glowing along it! — And all the same<br>
I'll pay him out for sidling off from me.<br>
But I'll have supper first.</blockquote><br>
<blockquote> When she was gone, <br>
Their talk could scarcely raise itself again<br>
Above a grumble. But at last a cry<br>
Sharp-pitcht came startling in from the street: at once<br>
Their moody talk exploded into flare<br>
Of swearing hubbub, like gunpowder dropt<br>
On embers; mugs were clapt down, out they bolted<br>
Rowdily jostling, eager for the event.<br><br>
All down the street the folk throng'd out of doors,<br>
But left a narrow track clear in the middle;<br>
And there a man came running, a tall man<br>
Running desperately and slowly, pounding<br>
Like a machine, so evenly, so blindly;<br>
And regularly his trotting body wagg'd.<br>
Only one foot clatter'd upon the stones;<br>
The other padded in his dogged stride:<br>
The boot was gone, the sock hung frayed in shreds<br>
About his ankle, the foot was blood and earth;<br>
And never a limp, not the least flinch, to tell<br>
The wounded pulp hit stone at every step.<br>
His clothes were tatter'd and his rent skin showed,<br>
Harrowed with thorns. His face was pale as putty,<br>
Thrown far back; clots of drooping spittle foamed<br>
On his moustache, and his hair hung in tails,<br>
Mired with sweat; and sightless in their sockets<br>
His eyeballs turned up white, as dull as pebbles.<br>
Evenly and doggedly he trotted,<br>
And as he went he moaned. Then out of sight<br>
Round a corner he swerved, and out of hearing.<br>
<br>
— 'The law should have a say to that, by God!'</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="littleh">Gordon Bottomley</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Littleholme</h3><br>
(<i>To J. S. and A. W. S.</i>)<br>
<br>
<blockquote>In entering the town, where the bright river<br>
Shrinks in its white stone bed, old thoughts return<br>
Of how a quiet queen was nurtured here<br>
In the pale, shadowed ruin on the height;<br>
Of how, when the hoar town was new and clean<br>
And had not grown a part of the gaunt fells<br>
That peered down into it, the burghers wove<br>
On their small, fireside looms green, famous webs<br>
To cling on lissome, tower-dwelling ladies<br>
Who rode the hills swaying like green saplings,<br>
Or mask tall, hardy outlaws from pursuit<br>
Down beechen caverns and green under-lights,<br>
(The rude, vain looms are gone, their beams are broken;<br>
Their webs are now not seen, but memory<br>
Still tangles in their mesh the dews they swept<br>
Like ruby sparks, the lights they took, the scents<br>
They held, the movement of their shapes and shades);<br>
Of how the Border burners in cold dawns<br>
Of Summer hurried North up the high vales<br>
Past smoking farmsteads that had lit the night<br>
And surf of crowding cattle; and of how<br>
A laughing prince of cursed, impossible hopes<br>
Rode through the little streets Northward to battle<br>
And to defeat, to be a fading thought,<br>
Belated in dead mountains of romance.<br><br>
A carver at his bench in a high gable<br>
Hears the sharp stream close under, far below<br>
Tinkle and rustle, and no other sound<br>
Arises there to him to change his thoughts<br>
Of the changed, silent town and the dead hands<br>
That made it and maintained it, and the need<br>
For handiwork and happy work and work<br>
To use and ease the mind if such sweet towns<br>
Are to be built again or live again.<br><br>
The long town ends at Littleholme, where the road<br>
Creeps up to hills of ancient-looking stone.<br>
Under the hanging eaves at Littleholme<br>
A latticed casement peeps above still gardens<br>
Into a crown of druid-solemn trees<br>
Upon a knoll as high as a small house,<br>
A shapely mound made so by nameless men<br>
Whose smoothing touch yet shows through the green hide.<br>
When the slow moonlight drips from leaf to leaf<br>
Of that sharp, plumy gloom, and the hour comes<br>
When something seems awaited, though unknown,<br>
There should appear between those leaf-thatched piles<br>
Fresh, long-limbed women striding easily,<br>
And men whose hair-plaits swing with their shagged arms;<br>
Returning in that equal, echoed light<br>
Which does not measure time to the dear garths<br>
That were their own when from white Norway coasts<br>
They landed on a kind, not distant shore,<br>
And to the place where they have left their clothing,<br>
Their long-accustomed bones and hair and beds<br>
That once were pleasant to them, in that barrow<br>
Their vanished children heaped above them dead:<br>
For in the soundless stillness of hot noon<br>
The mind of man, noticeable in that knoll,<br>
Enhances its dark presence with a life<br>
More vivid and more actual than the life<br>
Of self-sown trees and untouched earth. It is seen <br>
What aspect this land had in those first eyes:<br>
In that regard the works of later men<br>
Fall in and sink like lime when it is slaked,<br>
Staid, youthful queen and weavers are unborn,<br>
And the new crags the Northmen saw are set<br>
About an earth that has not been misused.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="invoke">Francis Brett Young</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Invocation</h3>
<blockquote>Whither, O, my sweet mistress, must I follow thee? <br>
For when I hear thy distant footfall nearing,<br>
And wait on thy appearing,<br>
Lo! my lips are silent: no words come to me.<br><br>
Once I waylaid thee in green forest covers,<br>
Hoping that spring might free my lips with gentle fingers;<br>
Alas! her presence lingers <br>
No longer than on the plain the shadow of brown kestrel hovers.<br><br>
Through windless ways of the night my spirit followed after;<br>
Cold and remote were they, and there, possessed<br>
By a strange unworldly rest,<br>
Awaiting thy still voice heard only starry laughter.<br><br>
The pillared halls of sleep echoed my ghostly tread.<br>
Yet when their secret chambers I essayed<br>
My spirit sank, dismayed,<br>
Waking in fear to find the new-born vision fled.<br><br>
Once indeed — but then my spirit bloomed in leafy rapture — <br>
I loved; and once I looked death in the eyes:<br>
So, suddenly made wise,<br>
Spoke of such beauty as I may never recapture....<br><br>
Whither, O, divine mistress, must I then follow thee?<br>
Is it only in love ... say, is it only in death<br>
That the spirit blossometh,<br>
And words that may match my vision shall come to me?</blockquote><br>
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<a name="prothal"></a><h3>Prothalamion</h3><br>
<blockquote>When the evening came my love said to me:<br>
Let us go into the garden now that the sky is cool;<br>
The garden of black hellebore and rosemary,<br>
Where wild woodruff spills in a milky pool.<br><br>
Low we passed in the twilight, for the wavering heat<br>
Of day had waned; and round that shaded plot<br>
Of secret beauty the thickets clustered sweet:<br>
Here is heaven, our hearts whispered, but our lips spake not.<br><br>
Between that old garden and seas of lazy foam<br>
Gloomy and beautiful alleys of trees arise<br>
With spire of cypress and dreamy beechen dome,<br>
So dark that our enchanted sight knew nothing but the skies:<br><br>
Veiled with a soft air, drench'd in the roses' musk<br>
Or the dusky, dark carnation's breath of clove:<br>
No stars burned in their deeps, but through the dusk<br>
I saw my love's eyes, and they were brimmed with love.<br><br>
No star their secret ravished, no wasting moon<br>
Mocked the sad transience of those eternal hours:<br>
Only the soft, unseeing heaven of June,<br>
The ghosts of great trees, and the sleeping flowers.<br><br>
For doves that crooned in the leafy noonday now<br>
Were silent; the night-jar sought his secret covers,<br>
Nor even a mild sea-whisper moved a creaking bough — <br>
Was ever a silence deeper made for lovers?<br><br>
Was ever a moment meeter made for love? <br>
Beautiful are your closed lips beneath my kiss; <br>
And all your yielding sweetness beautiful — <br>
Oh, never in all the world was such a night as this!</blockquote><br>
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<a name="febr"></a><h3>February</h3>
<blockquote>The robin on my lawn<br>
He was the first to tell<br>
How, in the frozen dawn,<br>
This miracle befell,<br>
Waking the meadows white<br>
With hoar, the iron road<br>
Agleam with splintered light,<br>
And ice where water flowed:<br>
Till, when the low sun drank<br>
Those milky mists that cloak<br>
Hanger and hollied bank,<br>
The winter world awoke<br>
To hear the feeble bleat<br>
Of lambs on downland farms:<br>
A blackbird whistled sweet;<br>
Old beeches moved their arms<br>
Into a mellow haze<br>
Aerial, newly-born:<br>
And I, alone, agaze,<br>
Stood waiting for the thorn<br>
To break in blossom white,<br>
Or burst in a green flame....<br>
So, in a single night,<br>
Fair February came,<br>
Bidding my lips to sing<br>
Or whisper their surprise,<br>
With all the joy of spring<br>
And morning in her eyes.</blockquote><br>
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<a name="lochan"></a><h3>Lochanilaun</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>This is the image of my last content: <br>
My soul shall be a little lonely lake,<br>
So hidden that no shadow of man may break<br>
The folding of its mountain battlement;<br>
Only the beautiful and innocent<br>
Whiteness of sea-born cloud drooping to shake<br>
Cool rain upon the reed-beds, or the wake<br>
Of churn'd cloud in a howling wind's descent.<br>
For there shall be no terror in the night<br>
When stars that I have loved are born in me,<br>
And cloudy darkness I will hold most fair;<br>
But this shall be the end of my delight:<br>
That you, my lovely one, may stoop and see<br>
Your image in the mirrored beauty there.</blockquote>
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<a name="lettrm"></a><h3>Lettermore</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>These winter days on Lettermore<br>
The brown west wind it sweeps the bay,<br>
And icy rain beats on the bare<br>
Unhomely fields that perish there:<br>
The stony fields of Lettermore<br>
That drink the white Atlantic spray.<br><br>
And men who starve on Lettermore,<br>
Cursing the haggard, hungry surf,<br>
Will souse the autumn's bruiséd grains<br>
To light dark fires within their brains<br>
And fight with stones on Lettermore<br>
Or sprawl beside the smoky turf.<br><br>
When spring blows over Lettermore<br>
To bloom the ragged furze with gold,<br>
The lovely south wind's living breath<br>
Is laden with the smell of death:<br>
For fever breeds on Lettermore<br>
To waste the eyes of young and old.<br><br>
A black van comes to Lettermore;<br>
The horses stumble on the stones,<br>
The drivers curse, — for it is hard<br>
To cross the hills from Oughterard<br>
And cart the sick from Lettermore:<br>
A stinking load of rags and bones.<br><br>
But you will go to Lettermore<br>
When white sea-trout are on the run,<br>
When purple glows between the rocks<br>
About Lord Dudley's fishing box<br>
Adown the road to Lettermore, <br>
And wide seas tarnish in the sun. <br><br>
And so you'll think of Lettermore<br>
As a lost island of the blest:<br>
With peasant lovers in a blue<br>
Dim dusk, with heather drench'd in dew,<br>
And the sweet peace of Lettermore<br>
Remote and dreaming in the West.</blockquote>
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<a name="songy"></a><h3>Song</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Why have you stolen my delight<br>
In all the golden shows of Spring<br>
When every cherry-tree is white<br>
And in the limes the thrushes sing,<br><br>
O fickler than the April day,<br>
O brighter than the golden broom,<br>
O blither than the thrushes' lay,<br>
O whiter than the cherry-bloom,<br><br>
O sweeter than all things that blow ...<br>
Why have you only left for me<br>
The broom, the cherry's crown of snow,<br>
And thrushes in the linden-tree?</blockquote>
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<a name="leanelm"></a><h3>The Leaning Elm</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Before my window, in days of winter hoar <br>
Huddled a mournful wood:<br>
Smooth pillars of beech, domed chestnut, sycamore,<br>
In stony sleep they stood:<br>
But you, unhappy elm, the angry west<br>
Had chosen from the rest,<br>
Flung broken on your brothers' branches bare,<br>
And left you leaning there<br>
So dead that when the breath of winter cast<br>
Wild snow upon the blast,<br>
The other living branches, downward bowed,<br>
Shook free their crystal shroud<br>
And shed upon your blackened trunk beneath<br>
Their livery of death....<br><br>
On windless nights between the beechen bars<br>
I watched cold stars<br>
Throb whitely in the sky, and dreamily<br>
Wondered if any life lay locked in thee:<br>
If still the hidden sap secretly moved<br>
As water in the icy winterbourne <br>
Floweth unheard:<br>
And half I pitied you your trance forlorn:<br>
You could not hear, I thought, the voice of any bird,<br>
The shadowy cries of bats in dim twilight<br>
Or cool voices of owls crying by night ...<br>
Hunting by night under the hornéd moon:<br>
Yet half I envied you your wintry swoon,<br>
Till, on this morning mild, the sun, new-risen<br>
Steals from his misty prison;<br>
The frozen fallows glow, the black trees shaken<br>
In a clear flood of sunlight vibrating awaken:<br>
And lo, your ravaged bole, beyond belief<br>
Slenderly fledged anew with tender leaf<br>
As pale as those twin vanes that break at last<br>
In a tiny fan above the black beech-mast<br>
Where no blade springeth green<br>
But pallid bells of the shy helleborine.<br>
What is this ecstasy that overwhelms<br>
The dreaming earth? See, the embrownéd elms<br>
Crowding purple distances warm the depths of the wood:<br>
A new-born wind tosses their tassels brown,<br>
His white clouds dapple the down:<br>
Into a green flame bursting the hedgerows stand.<br>
Soon, with banners flying, Spring will walk the land....<br><br>
There is no day for thee, my soul, like this,<br>
No spring of lovely words. Nay, even the kiss<br>
Of mortal love that maketh man divine<br>
This light cannot outshine:<br>
Nay, even poets, they whose frail hands catch<br>
The shadow of vanishing beauty, may not match<br>
This leafy ecstasy. Sweet words may cull<br>
Such magical beauty as time may not destroy;<br>
But we, alas, are not more beautiful:<br>
We cannot flower in beauty as in joy.<br>
We sing, our muséd words are sped, and then<br>
Poets are only men<br>
Who age, and toil, and sicken.... This maim'd tree<br>
May stand in leaf when I have ceased to be.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="lovdam">William H. Davies</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Lovely Dames</h3><br>
<blockquote>Few are my books, but my small few have told<br>
Of many a lovely dame that lived of old;<br>
And they have made me see those fatal charms<br>
Of Helen, which brought Troy so many harms;<br>
And lovely Venus, when she stood so white<br>
Close to her husband's forge in its red light.<br>
I have seen Dian's beauty in my dreams,<br>
When she had trained her looks in all the streams<br>
She crossed to Latmos and Endymion;<br>
And Cleopatra's eyes, that hour they shone<br>
The brighter for a pearl she drank to prove<br>
How poor it was compared to her rich love:<br>
But when I look on thee, love, thou dost give<br>
Substance to those fine ghosts, and make them live.</blockquote>
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<a name="yonfull"></a><h3>When Yon Full Moon</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When yon full moon's with her white fleet of stars,<br>
And but one bird makes music in the grove;<br>
When you and I are breathing side by side,<br>
Where our two bodies make one shadow, love;<br><br>
Not for her beauty will I praise the moon,<br>
But that she lights thy purer face and throat;<br>
The only praise I'll give the nightingale<br>
Is that she draws from thee a richer note.<br><br>
For, blinded with thy beauty, I am filled,<br>
Like Saul of Tarsus, with a greater light;<br>
When he had heard that warning voice in Heaven,<br>
And lost his eyes to find a deeper sight.<br><br>
Come, let us sit in that deep silence then,<br>
Launched on love's rapids, with our passions proud<br>
That makes all music hollow — though the lark<br>
Raves in his windy heights above a cloud.</blockquote>
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<a name="woodharps"></a><h3>On Hearing Mrs. Woodhouse Play the Harpsichord</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>We poets pride ourselves on what<br>
We feel, and not what we achieve;<br>
The world may call our children fools,<br>
Enough for us that we conceive.<br>
A little wren that loves the grass<br>
Can be as proud as any lark<br>
That tumbles in a cloudless sky,<br>
Up near the sun, till he becomes<br>
The apple of that shining eye.<br><br>
So, lady, I would never dare<br>
To hear your music ev'ry day;<br>
With those great bursts that send my nerves<br>
In waves to pound my heart away;<br>
And those small notes that run like mice<br>
Bewitched by light; else on those keys — <br>
My tombs of song — you should engrave:<br>
'My music, stronger than his own,<br>
Has made this poet my dumb slave.'</blockquote>
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<a name="birds"></a><h3>Birds</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When our two souls have left this mortal clay<br>
And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost — <br>
Look for me first in that Elysian glade<br>
Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.<br><br>
What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,<br>
That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!<br>
For in that month of May when leaves are young,<br>
Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.<br><br>
And when the spring has gone and they are dumb,<br>
Is it not fine to watch them at their play:<br>
Is it not fine to see a bird that tries<br>
To stand upon the end of every spray?<br><br>
See how they tilt their pretty heads aside:<br>
When women make that move they always please.<br>
What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls<br>
That Nature's love has ruined — and the trees.<br><br>
Oft have I seen in fields the little birds<br>
Go in between a bullock's legs to eat;<br>
But what gives me most joy is when I see<br>
Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.</blockquote>
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<a name="swcont"></a><h3>Oh, Sweet Content!</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat<br>
To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;<br>
How often have I sought you high and low,<br>
And found you still in some lone quiet place;<br><br>
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,<br>
With no life heard beyond that merry sound<br>
Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss<br>
Their shadows as they dance and dance around;<br><br>
Or in a garden, on a summer's night,<br>
When I have seen the dark and solemn air<br>
Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face<br>
Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.</blockquote>
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<a name="chpet"></a><h3>A Child's Pet</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I sailed out of Baltimore<br>
With twice a thousand head of sheep,<br>
They would not eat, they would not drink,<br>
But bleated o'er the deep.<br><br>
Inside the pens we crawled each day,<br>
To sort the living from the dead;<br>
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth<br>
Had lost five hundred head.<br><br>
Yet every night and day one sheep,<br>
That had no fear of man or sea,<br>
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,<br>
And it was stroked by me.<br><br>
And to the sheep-men standing near,<br>
'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep:<br>
It seems a child has lost her pet,<br>
And cried herself to sleep.'<br><br>
So every time we passed it by,<br>
Sailing to England's slaughter-house,<br>
Eight ragged sheep-men — tramps and thieves — <br>
Would stroke that sheep's black nose.</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="england"></a><h3>England</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>We have no grass locked up in ice so fast<br>
That cattle cut their faces and at last,<br>
When it is reached, must lie them down and starve,<br>
With bleeding mouths that freeze too hard to move.<br>
We have not that delirious state of cold<br>
That makes men warm and sing when in Death's hold.<br>
We have no roaring floods whose angry shocks<br>
Can kill the fishes dashed against their rocks.<br>
We have no winds that cut down street by street,<br>
As easy as our scythes can cut down wheat.<br>
No mountains here to spew their burning hearts<br>
Into the valleys, on our human parts.<br>
No earthquakes here, that ring church bells afar,<br>
A hundred miles from where those earthquakes are.<br>
We have no cause to set our dreaming eyes,<br>
Like Arabs, on fresh streams in Paradise.<br>
We have no wilds to harbour men that tell<br>
More murders than they can remember well.<br>
No woman here shall wake from her night's rest,<br>
To find a snake is sucking at her breast.<br>
Though I have travelled many and many a mile,<br>
And had a man to clean my boots and smile<br>
With teeth that had less bone in them than gold — <br>
Give me this England now for all my world.</blockquote>
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<a name="belld"></a><h3>The Bell</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>It is the bell of death I hear,<br>
Which tells me my own time is near,<br>
When I must join those quiet souls<br>
Where nothing lives but worms and moles;<br>
And not come through the grass again,<br>
Like worms and moles, for breath or rain;<br>
Yet let none weep when my life's through,<br>
For I myself have wept for few.<br><br>
The only things that knew me well<br>
Were children, dogs, and girls that fell;<br>
I bought poor children cakes and sweets,<br>
Dogs heard my voice and danced the streets;<br>
And, gentle to a fallen lass,<br>
I made her weep for what she was.<br>
Good men and women know not me.<br>
Nor love nor hate the mystery.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="sunkgar">Walter de la Mare</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>The Sunken Garden</h3>
<blockquote>Speak not — whisper not;<br>
Here bloweth thyme and bergamot;<br>
Softly on the evening hour,<br>
Secret herbs their spices shower,<br>
Dark-spiked rosemary and myrrh,<br>
Lean-stalked, purple lavender;<br>
Hides within her bosom, too,<br>
All her sorrows, bitter rue.<br><br>
Breathe not — trespass not;<br>
Of this green and darkling spot,<br>
Latticed from the moon's beams,<br>
Perchance a distant dreamer dreams;<br>
Perchance upon its darkening air,<br>
The unseen ghosts of children fare,<br>
Faintly swinging, sway and sweep,<br>
Like lovely sea-flowers in its deep;<br>
While, unmoved, to watch and ward,<br>
'Mid its gloomed and daisied sward,<br>
Stands with bowed and dewy head<br>
That one little leaden Lad.</blockquote><br>
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<a name="moonlit"></a><h3>Moonlight</h3><br>
<br>
<blockquote>The far moon maketh lovers wise<br>
In her pale beauty trembling down,<br>
Lending curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes,<br>
A strangeness not their own.<br>
And, though they shut their lids to kiss,<br>
In starless darkness peace to win,<br>
Even on that secret world from this<br>
Her twilight enters in.</blockquote><br>
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<a name="tryst"></a><h3>The Tryst</h3><br>
<blockquote>Flee into some forgotten night and be<br>
Of all dark long my moon-bright company:<br>
Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come,<br>
There, out of all remembrance, make our home:<br>
Seek we some close hid shadow for our lair,<br>
Hollowed by Noah's mouse beneath the chair<br>
Wherein the Omnipotent, in slumber bound,<br>
Nods till the piteous Trump of Judgment sound.<br>
Perchance Leviathan of the deep sea<br>
Would lease a lost mermaiden's grot to me,<br>
There of your beauty we would joyance make — <br>
A music wistful for the sea-nymph's sake:<br>
Haply Elijah, o'er his spokes of fire,<br>
Cresting steep Leo, or the heavenly Lyre,<br>
Spied, tranced in azure of inanest space,<br>
Some eyrie hostel, meet for human grace,<br>
Where two might happy be — just you and I — <br>
Lost in the uttermost of Eternity.<br>
Think! in Time's smallest clock's minutest beat<br>
Might there not rest be found for wandering feet?<br>
Or, 'twixt the sleep and wake of Helen's dream,<br>
Silence wherein to sing love's requiem?<br><br>
No, no. Nor earth, nor air, nor fire, nor deep<br>
Could lull poor mortal longingness asleep.<br>
Somewhere there nothing is; and there lost Man<br>
Shall win what changeless vague of peace he can.</blockquote><br>
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<a name="linnet"></a><h3>The Linnet</h3><br><br>
<blockquote>Upon this leafy bush<br>
With thorns and roses in it,<br>
Flutters a thing of light,<br>
A twittering linnet.<br>
And all the throbbing world<br>
Of dew and sun and air<br>
By this small parcel of life<br>
Is made more fair;<br>
As if each bramble-spray<br>
And mounded gold-wreathed furze,<br>
Harebell and little thyme,<br>
Were only hers;<br>
As if this beauty and grace<br>
Did to one bird belong,<br>
And, at a flutter of wing,<br>
Might vanish in song.</blockquote><br>
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<br>
<a name="veil"></a><h3>The Veil</h3><br>
<blockquote>I think and think: yet still I fail — <br>
Why must this lady wear a veil?<br>
Why thus elect to mask her face<br>
Beneath that dainty web of lace?<br>
The tip of a small nose I see,<br>
And two red lips, set curiously<br>
Like twin-born berries on one stem,<br>
And yet, she has netted even them.<br>
Her eyes, 'tis plain, survey with ease<br>
Whate'er to glance upon they please.<br>
Yet, whether hazel, gray, or blue,<br>
Or that even lovelier lilac hue,<br>
I cannot guess: why — why deny<br>
Such beauty to the passer-by?<br>
Out of a bush a nightingale<br>
May expound his song; from 'neath that veil<br>
A happy mouth no doubt can make<br>
English sound sweeter for its sake.<br>
But then, why muffle in like this<br>
What every blossomy wind would kiss?<br>
Why in that little night disguise<br>
A daybreak face, those starry eyes?</blockquote>
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<a name="3stran"></a><h3>The Three Strangers</h3><br>
<blockquote>Far are those tranquil hills,<br>
Dyed with fair evening's rose;<br>
On urgent, secret errand bent,<br>
A traveller goes.<br><br>
Approach him strangers three,<br>
Barefooted, cowled; their eyes<br>
Scan the lone, hastening solitary<br>
With dumb surmise.<br><br>
One instant in close speech<br>
With them he doth confer:<br>
God-sped, he hasteneth on,<br>
That anxious traveller....<br><br>
I was that man — in a dream:<br>
And each world's night in vain<br>
I patient wait on sleep to unveil<br>
Those vivid hills again.<br><br>
Would that they three could know<br>
How yet burns on in me<br>
Love — from one lost in Paradise — <br>
For their grave courtesy.</blockquote>
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<a name="oldmen"></a><h3>The Old Men</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Old and alone, sit we,<br>
Caged, riddle-rid men;<br>
Lost to earth's 'Listen!' and 'See!'<br>
Thought's 'Wherefore?' and 'When?'<br><br>
Only far memories stray<br>
Of a past once lovely, but now<br>
Wasted and faded away,<br>
Like green leaves from the bough.<br><br>
Vast broods the silence of night,<br>
The ruinous moon<br>
Lifts on our faces her light,<br>
Whence all dreaming is gone.<br><br>
We speak not; trembles each head;<br>
In their sockets our eyes are still;<br>
Desire as cold as the dead;<br>
Without wonder or will.<br><br>
And One, with a lanthorn, draws near,<br>
At clash with the moon in our eyes:<br>
'Where art thou?' he asks: 'I am here,'<br>
One by one we arise.<br><br>
And none lifts a hand to withhold<br>
A friend from the touch of that foe:<br>
Heart cries unto heart, 'Thou art old!'<br>
Yet reluctant, we go.</blockquote>
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<a name="farewell"></a><h3>Fare Well</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I lie where shades of darkness<br>
Shall no more assail mine eyes,<br>
Nor the rain make lamentation<br>
When the wind sighs;<br>
How will fare the world whose wonder<br>
Was the very proof of me?<br>
Memory fades, must the remembered<br>
Perishing be?<br><br>
Oh, when this my dust surrenders<br>
Hand, foot, lip, to dust again,<br>
May those loved and loving faces<br>
Please other men!<br>
May the rusting harvest hedgerow<br>
Still the Traveller's Joy entwine,<br>
And as happy children gather<br>
Posies once mine.<br><br>
Look thy last on all things lovely,<br>
Every hour. Let no night<br>
Seal thy sense in deathly slumber<br>
Till to delight<br>
Thou have paid thy utmost blessing;<br>
Since that all things thou wouldst praise<br>
Beauty took from those who loved them<br>
In other days.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="deer">John Drinkwater</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Deer</h3><br>
<blockquote>Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.<br>
They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near<br>
Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,<br>
Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive<br>
Treading as in jungles free leopards do,<br>
Printless as evelight, instant as dew.<br>
The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep<br>
Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep<br>
Delicate and far their counsels wild,<br>
Never to be folded reconciled<br>
To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are;<br>
Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,<br>
These you may not hinder, unconfined<br>
Beautiful flocks of the mind.</blockquote>
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<a name="moonapp"></a><h3>Moonlit Apples</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,<br>
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those<br>
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes<br>
A cloud on the moon in the autumn night.<br><br>
A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then<br>
There is no sound at the top of the house of men<br>
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again<br>
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.<br><br>
They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;<br>
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams<br>
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,<br>
And quiet is the steep stair under.<br><br>
In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.<br>
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep<br>
Tryst with the moon, and deep is the silence, deep<br>
On moon-washed apples of wonder.</blockquote>
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<a name="southbell"></a><h3>Southampton Bells</h3>
<br>
<table summary="s bells" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span></td>
<td>Long ago some builder thrust<br>
Heavenward in Southampton town<br>
His spire and beamed his bells,<br>
Largely conceiving from the dust<br>
That pinnacle for ringing down<br>
Orisons and Noëls.<br><br>
In his imagination rang,<br>
Through generations challenging<br>
His peal on simple men,<br>
Who, as the heart within him sang,<br>
In daily townfaring should sing<br>
By year and year again.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span</td>
<td>Now often to their ringing go<br>
The bellmen with lean Time at heel,<br>
Intent on daily cares;<br>
The bells ring high, the bells ring low,<br>
The ringers ring the builder's peal<br>
Of tidings unawares.<br><br>
And all the bells might well be dumb<br>
For any quickening in the street<br>
Of customary ears;<br>
And so at last proud builders come<br>
With dreams and virtues to defeat<br>
Among the clouding years.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span</td>
<td>Now, waiting on Southampton sea<br>
For exile, through the silver night<br>
I hear Noël! Noël!<br>
Through generations down to me<br>
Your challenge, builder, comes aright,<br>
Bell by obedient bell.<br><br>
You wake an hour with me; then wide<br>
Though be the lapses of your sleep<br>
You yet shall wake again;<br>
And thus, old builder, on the tide<br>
Of immortality you keep<br>
Your way from brain to brain.</td>
</tr>
</table>
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<a name="chorusd"></a><h3>Chorus from <i>Lincoln</i></h3>
<br>
<blockquote>You who have gone gathering<br>
Cornflowers and meadowsweet,<br>
Heard the hazels glancing down<br>
On September eves,<br>
Seen the homeward rooks on wing<br>
Over fields of golden wheat,<br>
And the silver cups that crown<br>
Water-lily leaves;<br><br>
You who know the tenderness<br>
Of old men at eve-tide,<br>
Coming from the hedgerows,<br>
Coming from the plough,<br>
And the wandering caress<br>
Of winds upon the woodside,<br>
When the crying yaffle goes<br>
Underneath the bough;<br><br>
You who mark the flowing<br>
Of sap upon the May-time,<br>
And the waters welling<br>
From the watershed,<br>
You who count the growing<br>
Of harvest and hay-time,<br>
Knowing these the telling<br>
Of your daily bread;<br><br>
You who cherish courtesy<br>
With your fellows at your gate,<br>
And about your hearthstone sit<br>
Under love's decrees,<br>
You who know that death will be<br>
Speaking with you soon or late,<br>
Kinsmen, what is mother-wit<br>
But the light of these?<br><br>
Knowing these, what is there more<br>
For learning in your little years?<br>
Are not these all gospels bright<br>
Shining on your day?<br>
How then shall your hearts be sore<br>
With envy and her brood of fears,<br>
How forget the words of light<br>
From the mountain-way ...<br><br>
Blessed are the merciful ...<br>
Does not every threshold seek<br>
Meadows and the flight of birds<br>
For compassion still?<br>
Blessed are the merciful ...<br>
Are we pilgrims yet to speak<br>
Out of Olivet the words<br>
Of knowledge and good-will?</blockquote>
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<a name="habit"></a><h3>Habitation</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>High up in the sky there, now, you know,<br>
In this May twilight, our cottage is asleep,<br>
Tenantless, and no creature there to go<br>
Near it but Mrs. Fry's fat cows, and sheep<br>
Dove-coloured, as is Cotswold. No one hears<br>
Under that cherry-tree the night-jars yet,<br>
The windows are uncurtained; on the stairs<br>
Silence is but by tip-toe silence met.<br>
All doors are fast there. It is a dwelling put by<br>
From use for a little, or long, up there in the sky.<br><br>
Empty; a walled-in silence, in this twilight of May — <br>
Home for lovers, and friendly withdrawing, and sleep,<br>
With none to love there, nor laugh, nor climb from the day<br>
To the candles and linen ... Yet in the silence creep,<br>
This minute, I know, little ghosts, little virtuous lives,<br>
Breathing upon that still, insensible place,<br>
Touching the latches, sorting the napkins and knives,<br>
And such for the comfort of being, and bowls for the grace,<br>
That roses will brim; they are creeping from that room to this,<br>
One room, and two, till the four are visited ... they,<br>
Little ghosts, little lives, are our thoughts in this twilight of May,<br>
Signs that even the curious man would miss,<br>
Of travelling lovers to Cotswold, signs of an hour,<br>
Very soon, when up from the valley in June will ride<br>
Lovers by Lynch to Oakridge up in the wide<br>
Bow of the hill, to a garden of lavender flower ...<br>
The doors are locked; no foot falls; the hearths are dumb — <br>
But we are there — we are waiting ourselves who come.</blockquote>
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<a name="passage"></a><h3>Passage</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When you deliberate the page<br>
Of Alexander's pilgrimage,<br>
Or say — 'It is three years, or ten,<br>
Since Easter slew Connolly's men,'<br>
Or prudently to judgment come<br>
Of Antony or Absalom,<br>
And think how duly are designed<br>
Case and instruction for the mind,<br>
Remember then that also we,<br>
In a moon's course, are history.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="musediv">John Freeman</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>O Muse Divine</h3><br>
<blockquote>O thou, my Muse,<br>
Beside the Kentish River running<br>
Through water-meads where dews<br>
Tossed flashing at thy feet<br>
And tossing flashed again<br>
When the timid herd<br>
By thy swift passing stirred<br>
Up-leapt and ran;<br><br>
Thou that didst fleet<br>
Thy shadow over dark October hills<br>
By Aston, Weston, Saintbury, Willersey,<br>
Winchcombe, and all the combes and hills<br>
Of the green lonely land;<br><br>
Thou that in May<br>
Once when I saw thee sunning<br>
Thyself so lovely there<br>
Than the flushed flower more fair<br>
Fallen from the wild apple spray,<br>
Didst rise and sprinkling sunlight with thy hand<br>
Shadow-like disappear in the deep-shadowy hedges<br>
Between forsaken Buckle Street and the sparse sedges<br>
Of young twin-breasted Honeybourne; — <br><br>
O thou, my Muse,<br>
Scarce longer seen than the brief hues<br>
Of winter cloud that flames<br>
Over the tarnished silver Thames;<br>
So often nearing,<br>
As often disappearing,<br>
With thy body's shadow brushing<br>
My brain at midnight, lightly touching;<br>
O yield thee, Muse, to me,<br>
No more in dream delights and morn forgettings,<br>
But in a ferny hollow I know well<br>
And thou know'st well, warm-proof'd 'gainst the wind's frettings.<br>
... Bring thou thyself, and there<br>
In that warm ferny hollow where the sun<br>
Slants one gold beam and no light else but thine<br>
And my eyes' happy shine — <br>
There, O lovely Muse,<br>
Shall on thy shining body be begot,<br>
Fruit of delights a many mingling in one,<br>
Thy child and mine, a lovely shape and thought;<br>
My child and thine,<br>
O Muse divine!</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="wakers"></a><h3>The Wakers</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The joyous morning ran and kissed the grass<br>
And drew his fingers through her sleeping hair,<br>
And cried, 'Before thy flowers are well awake<br>
Rise, and the lingering darkness from thee shake.<br><br>
'Before the daisy and the sorrel buy<br>
Their brightness back from that close-folding night,<br>
Come, and the shadows from thy bosom shake,<br>
Awake from thy thick sleep, awake, awake!'<br><br>
Then the grass of that mounded meadow stirred<br>
Above the Roman bones that may not stir<br>
Though joyous morning whispered, shouted, sang:<br>
The grass stirred as that happy music rang.<br><br>
O, what a wondrous rustling everywhere!<br>
The steady shadows shook and thinned and died,<br>
The shining grass flashed brightness back for brightness,<br>
And sleep was gone, and there was heavenly lightness.<br><br>
As if she had found wings, light as the wind,<br>
The grass flew, bent with the wind, from east to west,<br>
Chased by one wild grey cloud, and flashing all<br>
Her dews for happiness to hear morning call....<br><br>
But even as I stepped out the brightness dimmed,<br>
I saw the fading edge of all delight.<br>
The sober morning waked the drowsy herds,<br>
And there was the old scolding of the birds.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="bodyf"></a><h3>The Body</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I had dreamed and dreamed what woman's beauty was,<br>
And how that beauty seen from unseen surely flowed,<br>
I turned and dreamed again, but sleeping saw no more:<br>
My eyes shut and my mind with inward vision glowed.<br><br>
'I did not think!' I cried, seeing that wavering shape<br>
That steadied and then wavered, as a cherry bough in June<br>
Lifts and falls in the wind — each fruit a fruit of light;<br>
And then she stood as clear as an unclouded moon.<br><br>
As clear and still she stood, moonlike remotely near;<br>
I saw and heard her breathe, I years and years away.<br>
Her light streamed through the years, I saw her clear and still,<br>
Shape and spirit together mingling night with day.<br><br>
Water falling, falling with the curve of time<br>
Over green-hued rock, then plunging to its pool<br>
Far, far below, a falling spear of light;<br>
Water falling golden from the sun but moonlike cool:<br><br>
Water has the curve of her shoulder and breast,<br>
Water falls as straight as her body rose,<br>
Water her brightness has from neck to still feet,<br>
Water crystal-cold as her cold body flows.<br><br>
But not water has the colour I saw when I dreamed,<br>
Nor water such strength has. I joyed to behold<br>
How the blood lit her body with lamps of fire<br>
And made the flesh glow that like water gleamed cold,<br><br>
A flame in her arms and in each finger flame,<br>
And flame in her bosom, flame above, below,<br>
The curve of climbing flame in her waist and her thighs;<br>
From foot to head did flame into red flame flow.<br><br>
I knew how beauty seen from unseen must rise,<br>
How the body's joy for more than body's use was made.<br>
I knew then how the body is the body of the mind,<br>
And how the mind's own fire beneath the cool skin played.<br><br>
O shape that once to have seen is to see evermore,<br>
Falling stream that falls to the deeps of the mind,<br>
Fire that once lit burns while aught burns in the world,<br>
Foot to head a flame moving in the spirit's wind!<br><br>
If these eyes could see what these eyes have not seen — <br>
The inward vision clear — how should I look, for joy,<br>
Knowing that beauty's self rose visible in the world<br>
Over age that darkens, and griefs that destroy?</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="10nomore"></a><h3>Ten o'Clock No More<a href="#f1"><span style="font-size: 80%;"><sup>1</sup></span></a></h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The wind has thrown<br>
The boldest of trees down.<br>
Now disgraced it lies,<br>
Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies,<br>
Naked and still.<br><br>
It was the wind<br>
So furious and blind<br>
That scourged half England through,<br>
Ruining the fairest where most fair it grew<br>
By dell and hill,<br><br>
And springing here,<br>
The black clouds dragging near,<br>
Against this lonely elm<br>
Thrust all his strength to maim and overwhelm<br>
In one wild shock.<br><br>
As in the deep<br>
Satisfaction of dark sleep<br>
The tree her dream dreamed on,<br>
And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrown<br>
And her head rock.<br><br>
And the wind raught<br>
Her ageing boughs and caught<br>
Her body fast again.<br>
Then in one agony of age, grief, pain,<br>
She fell and died.<br><br>
Her noble height, <br>
Branches that loved the light, <br>
Her music and cool shade,<br>
Her memories and all of her is dead<br>
On the hill side.<br><br>
But the wind stooped,<br>
With madness tired, and drooped<br>
In the soft valley and slept,<br>
While morning strangely round the hush'd tree crept<br>
And called in vain.<br><br>
The birds fed where<br>
The roots uptorn and bare<br>
Thrust shameful at the sky;<br>
And pewits round the tree would dip and cry<br>
With the old pain.<br><br>
'Ten o'clock's gone!'<br>
Said sadly every one.<br>
And mothers looking thought<br>
Of sons and husbands far away that fought: — <br>
And looked again.</blockquote><br>
<hr width="25%" align="left"><br>
<a name="f1"><span style="color: #FF0000;">Footnote 1:</span></a> <i>Ten o'clock</i> is the name of a tall tree that crowned
the eastern Cotswolds.<br>
<a href="#10nomore">return to footnote mark</a><br>
<br>
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<a name="fugitive"></a><h3>The Fugitive</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>In the hush of early even<br>
The clouds came flocking over,<br>
Till the last wind fell from heaven<br>
And no bird cried.<br><br>
Darkly the clouds were flocking,<br>
Shadows moved and deepened,<br>
Then paused; the poplar's rocking<br>
Ceased; the light hung still<br><br>
Like a painted thing, and deadly.<br>
Then from the cloud's side flickered<br>
Sharp lightning, thrusting madly<br>
At the cowering fields.<br><br>
Thrice the fierce cloud lighten'd,<br>
Down the hill slow thunder trembled<br>
Day in her cave grew frightened,<br>
Crept away, and died.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="alde"></a><h3>The Alde</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>How near I walked to Love,<br>
How long, I cannot tell.<br>
I was like the Alde that flows<br>
Quietly through green level lands,<br>
So quietly, it knows<br>
Their shape, their greenness and their shadows well;<br>
And then undreamingly for miles it goes<br>
And silently, beside the sea.<br><br>
Seamews circle over,<br>
The winter wildfowl wings,<br>
Long and green the grasses wave<br>
Between the river and the sea.<br>
The sea's cry, wild or grave,<br>
From bank to low bank of the river rings;<br>
But the uncertain river though it crave<br>
The sea, knows not the sea.<br><br>
Was that indeed salt wind?<br>
Came that noise from falling<br>
Wild waters on a stony shore?<br>
Oh, what is this new troubling tide<br>
Of eager waves that pour<br>
Around and over, leaping, parting, recalling?...<br>
How near I moved (as day to same day wore)<br>
And silently, beside the sea!</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="nearf"></a><h3>Nearness</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Thy hand my hand,<br>
Thine eyes my eyes,<br>
All of thee<br>
Caught and confused with me:<br>
My hand thy hand,<br>
My eyes thine eyes,<br>
All of me<br>
Sunken and discovered anew in thee....<br><br>
No: still<br>
A foreign mind,<br>
A thought<br>
By other yet uncaught;<br>
A secret will<br>
Strange as the wind:<br>
The heart of thee<br>
Bewildering with strange fire the heart in me.<br><br>
Hand touches hand,<br>
Eye to eye beckons,<br>
But who shall guess<br>
Another's loneliness?<br>
Though hand grasp hand,<br>
Though the eye quickens,<br>
Still lone as night<br>
Remain thy spirit and mine, past touch and sight.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="nightf"></a><h3>Night and Night</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The earth is purple in the evening light,<br>
The grass is graver green.<br>
The gold among the meadows darker glows,<br>
In the quieted air the blackbird sings more loud.<br>
The sky has lost its rose — <br>
Nothing more than this candle now shines bright.<br><br>
Were there but natural night, how easy were<br>
The putting-by of sense<br>
At the day's end, and if no heavier air<br>
Came o'er the mind in a thick-falling cloud.<br>
But now there is no light<br>
Within; and to this innocent night how dark my night!</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="herdf"></a><h3>The Herd</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The roaming sheep, forbidden to roam far,<br>
Were stayed within the shadow of his eye.<br>
The sheep-dog on that unseen shadow's edge<br>
Moved, halted, barked, while the tall shepherd stood<br>
Unmoving, leaned upon a sarsen stone,<br>
Looking at the rain that curtained the bare hills<br>
And drew the smoking curtain near and near! — <br>
Tawny, bush-faced, with cloak and staff, and flask<br>
And bright brass-ribb'd umbrella, standing stone<br>
Against the veinless, senseless sarsen stone.<br>
The Roman Road hard by, the green Ridge Way,<br>
Not older seemed, nor calmer the long barrows<br>
Of bones and memories of ancient days<br>
Than the tall shepherd with his craft of days<br>
Older than Roman or the oldest caveman,<br>
When, in the generation of all living,<br>
Sheep and kine flocked in the Aryan valley and<br>
The first herd with his voice and skill of water<br>
Fleetest of foot, led them into green pastures,<br>
From perished pastures to new green. I saw<br>
The herdsmen everywhere about the world,<br>
And herdsmen of all time, fierce, lonely, wise,<br>
Herds of Arabia and Syria<br>
And Thessaly, and longer-winter'd climes;<br>
And this lone herd, ages before England was,<br>
Pelt-clad, and armed with flint-tipped ashen sap,<br>
Watching his flocks, and those far flocks of stars<br>
Slow moving as the heavenly shepherd willed<br>
And at dawn shut into the sunny fold.</blockquote>
<br>
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<h2><a name="wingsg">Wilfrid Wilson Gibson</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Wings</h3>
<blockquote>As a blue-necked mallard alighting in a pool<br>
Among marsh-marigolds and splashing wet<br>
Green leaves and yellow blooms, like jewels set<br>
In bright, black mud, with clear drops crystal-cool,<br>
Bringing keen savours of the sea and stir<br>
Of windy spaces where wild sunsets flame<br>
To that dark inland dyke, the thought of her<br>
Into my brooding stagnant being came.<br><br>
And all my senses quickened into life,<br>
Tingling and glittering, and the salt and fire<br>
Sang through my singing blood in eager strife<br>
Until through crystal airs we seemed to be<br>
Soaring together, one fleet-winged desire<br>
Of windy sunsets and the wandering sea.</blockquote><br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="parrotsg"></a><h3>The Parrots</h3>
<blockquote>Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,<br>
But where or when I'll never know,<br>
Parrots of shrilly green<br>
With crests of shriller scarlet flying<br>
Out of black cedars as the sun was dying<br>
Against cold peaks of snow.<br><br>
From what forgotten life<br>
Of other worlds I cannot tell<br>
Flashes that screeching strife;<br>
Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying<br>
Sing through my blood and set my heart replying<br>
And jangling like a bell.</blockquote><br><br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br>
<a name="cakewalkg"></a><h3>The Cakewalk</h3>
<blockquote>In smoky lamplight of a Smyrna Café,<br>
He saw them, seven solemn negroes dancing,<br>
With faces rapt and out-thrust bellies prancing<br>
In a slow solemn ceremonial cakewalk,<br>
Dancing and prancing to the sombre tom-tom<br>
Thumped by a crookbacked grizzled negro squatting.<br>
And as he watched ... within the steamy twilight<br>
Of swampy forest in rank greenness rotting,<br>
That sombre tom-tom at his heartstrings strumming<br>
Set all his sinews twitching, and a singing<br>
Of cold fire through his blood — and he was dancing<br>
Among his fellows in the dank green twilight<br>
With naked, oiled, bronze-gleaming bodies swinging<br>
In a rapt holy everlasting cakewalk<br>
For evermore in slow procession prancing.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="driftwg"></a><h3>Driftwood</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Black spars of driftwood burn to peacock flames,<br>
Sea-emeralds and sea-purples and sea-blues,<br>
And all the innumerable ever-changing hues<br>
That haunt the changeless deeps but have no names,<br>
Flicker and spire in our enchanted sight:<br>
And as we gaze, the unsearchable mystery,<br>
The unfathomed cold salt magic of the sea,<br>
Shines clear before us in the quiet night.<br><br>
We know the secret that Ulysses sought,<br>
That moonstruck mariners since time began<br>
Snatched at a drowning hazard — -strangely brought<br>
To our homekeeping hearts in drifting spars<br>
We chanced to kindle under the cold stars — <br>
The secret in the ocean-heart of man.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="quietg"></a><h3>Quiet</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Only the footprints of the partridge run <br>
Over the billowy drifts on the mountain-side;<br>
And now on level wings the brown birds glide<br>
Following the snowy curves, and in the sun<br>
Bright birds of gold above the stainless white<br>
They move, and as the pale blue shadows move,<br>
With them my heart glides on in golden flight<br>
Over the hills of quiet to my love.<br><br>
Storm-shaken, racked with terror through the long<br>
Tempestuous night, in the quiet blue of morn<br>
Love drinks the crystal airs, and peace newborn<br>
Within his troubled heart, on wings aglow<br>
Soars into rapture, as from the quiet snow<br>
The golden birds; and out of silence, song.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="revg"></a><h3>Reveille</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Still bathed in its moonlight slumber, the little white house by the cedar<br>
Stands silent against the red dawn;<br>
And nothing I know of who sleeps there, to the travail of day yet unwakened,<br>
Behind the blue curtains undrawn:<br><br>
But I dream as we march down the roadway, ringing loud and white-rimed in the moonlight,<br>
Of a little dark house on a hill<br>
Wherein when the battle is over, to the rapture of day yet unwakened,<br>
We shall slumber as dreamless and still.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="ballnurs">Robert Graves</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme</h3>
<blockquote>Strawberries that in gardens grow<br>
Are plump and juicy fine,<br>
But sweeter far as wise men know<br>
Spring from the woodland vine.<br><br>
No need for bowl or silver spoon,<br>
Sugar or spice or cream,<br>
Has the wild berry plucked in June<br>
Beside the trickling stream.<br><br>
One such to melt at the tongue's root,<br>
Confounding taste with scent,<br>
Beats a full peck of garden fruit:<br>
Which points my argument.<br><br>
May sudden justice overtake<br>
And snap the froward pen,<br>
That old and palsied poets shake<br>
Against the minds of men;<br><br>
Blasphemers trusting to hold caught<br>
In far-flung webs of ink<br>
The utmost ends of human thought,<br>
Till nothing's left to think.<br><br>
But may the gift of heavenly peace<br>
And glory for all time<br>
Keep the boy Tom who tending geese<br>
First made the nursery rhyme.<br><br>
By the brookside one August day,<br>
Using the sun for clock,<br>
Tom whiled the languid hours away<br>
Beside his scattering flock,<br><br>
Carving with a sharp pointed stone<br>
On a broad slab of slate<br>
The famous lives of Jumping Joan,<br>
Dan Fox and Greedy Kate;<br><br>
Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds,<br>
Spain, Scotland, Babylon,<br>
That sister Kate might learn the words<br>
To tell to Toddling John.<br><br>
But Kate, who could not stay content<br>
To learn her lesson pat,<br>
New beauty to the rough lines lent<br>
By changing this or that;<br><br>
And she herself set fresh things down<br>
In corners of her slate,<br>
Of lambs and lanes and London Town.<br>
God's blessing fall on Kate!<br><br>
The baby loved the simple sound,<br>
With jolly glee he shook,<br>
And soon the lines grew smooth and round<br>
Like pebbles in Tom's brook,<br><br>
From mouth to mouth told and retold<br>
By children sprawled at ease<br>
Before the fire in winter's cold,<br>
In June beneath tall trees;<br><br>
Till though long lost are stone and slate,<br>
Though the brook no more runs,<br>
And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate,<br>
Their sons and their sons' sons;<br><br>
Yet, as when Time with stealthy tread <br>
Lays the rich garden waste, <br>
The woodland berry ripe and red<br>
Fails not in scent or taste,<br><br>
So these same rhymes shall still be told<br>
To children yet unborn,<br>
While false philosophy growing old<br>
Fades and is killed by scorn.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="frostnigh"></a><h3>A Frosty Night</h3><br>
<i>Mother</i>:
<blockquote>Alice, dear, what ails you,<br>
Dazed and white and shaken?<br>
Has the chill night numbed you?<br>
Is it fright you have taken?</blockquote><br>
<i>Alice</i>:
<blockquote>Mother I am very well,<br>
I felt never better;<br>
Mother, do not hold me so,<br>
Let me write my letter.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mother</i>:
<blockquote>Sweet, my dear, what ails you?</blockquote><br>
<i>Alice</i>:
<blockquote>No, but I am well.<br>
The night was cold and frosty,<br>
There's no more to tell.</blockquote>
<i>Mother</i>:
<blockquote>Ay, the night was frosty,<br>
Coldly gaped the moon,<br>
Yet the birds seemed twittering<br>
Through green boughs of June.<br><br>
Soft and thick the snow lay,<br>
Stars danced in the sky.<br>
Not all the lambs of May-day<br>
Skip so bold and high.<br><br>
Your feet were dancing, Alice,<br>
Seemed to dance on air,<br>
You looked a ghost or angel<br>
In the starlight there.<br><br>
Your eyes were frosted starlight,<br>
Your heart, fire, and snow.<br>
Who was it said 'I love you?'</blockquote><br>
<i>Alice</i>:
<blockquote>Mother, let me go!</blockquote>
<br>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h3><a name="truejon">True Johnny</a></h3>
<br>
<i>Mary</i>:
<blockquote>Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true<br>
To all those famous vows you've made?<br>
Will you love me as I love you<br>
Until we both in earth are laid?<br>
Or shall the old wives nod and say<br>
'His love was only for a day,<br>
The mood goes by,<br>
His fancies fly,<br>
And Mary's left to sigh.'</blockquote><br>
<i>Johnny</i>:
<blockquote>Mary, alas, you've hit the truth,<br>
And I with grief can but admit<br>
Hot-blooded haste controls my youth,<br>
My idle fancies veer and flit<br>
From flower to flower, from tree to tree,<br>
And when the moment catches me<br>
Oh, love goes by,<br>
Away I fly,<br>
And leave my girl to sigh.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary</i>:
<blockquote>Could you but now foretell the day,<br>
Johnny, when this sad thing must be,<br>
When light and gay you'll turn away<br>
And laugh and break the heart in me?<br>
For like a nut for true love's sake<br>
My empty heart shall crack and break,<br>
When fancies fly<br>
And love goes by<br>
And Mary's left to die.</blockquote><br>
<i>Johnny</i>:
<blockquote>When the sun turns against the clock,<br>
When Avon waters upward flow,<br>
When eggs are laid by barn-door cock,<br>
When dusty hens do strut and crow,<br>
When up is down, when left is right,<br>
Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight,<br>
With careless eye<br>
Away I'll fly<br>
And Mary here shall die.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp2">Contents, p. 2</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="cupb"></a><h3>The Cupboard</h3>
<br>
<i>Mother:</i>
<blockquote>What's in that cupboard, Mary?</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary:</i>
<blockquote>Which cupboard, mother dear?</blockquote><br>
<i>Mother:</i>
<blockquote>The cupboard of red mahogany<br>
With handles shining clear.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary:</i>
<blockquote>That cupboard, dearest mother,<br>
With shining crystal handles?<br>
There's nought inside but rags and jags<br>
And yellow tallow candles.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mother:</i>
<blockquote>What's in that cupboard, Mary?</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary:</i>
<blockquote>Which cupboard, mother mine?</blockquote><br>
<i>Mother:</i>
<blockquote>That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,<br>
The silver corners shine.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary:</i>
<blockquote>There's nothing there inside, mother,<br>
But wool and thread and flax,<br>
And bits of faded silk and velvet<br>
And candles of white wax.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mother:</i>
<blockquote>What's in that cupboard, Mary?<br>
And this time tell me true.</blockquote><br>
<i>Mary:</i>
<blockquote>White clothes for an unborn baby, mother..<br>
But what's the truth to you?</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="beatdrow"></a><h3>The Voice of Beauty Drowned</h3>
<br>
<blockquote><i>Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!</i><br>
The other birds woke all around;<br>
Rising with toot and howl they stirred<br>
Their plumage, broke the trembling sound,<br>
They craned their necks, they fluttered wings,<br>
'While we are silent no one sings,<br>
And while we sing you hush your throat,<br>
Or tune your melody to our note.'<br><br>
<i>Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!</i><br>
The screams and hootings rose again:<br>
They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred<br>
Their noisy plumage; small but plain<br>
The lonely hidden singer made<br>
A well of grief within the glade.<br>
'Whist, silly fool, be off,' they shout,<br>
'Or we'll come pluck your feathers out.'<br><br>
<i>Cry from the thicket my heart's bird!</i><br>
Slight and small the lovely cry<br>
Came trickling down, but no one heard;<br>
Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie,<br>
Jarred horrid notes, the jangling jay<br>
Ripped the fine threads of song away;<br>
For why should peeping chick aspire<br>
To challenge their loud woodland choir?<br><br>
Cried it so sweet, that unseen bird?<br>
Lovelier could no music be,<br>
Clearer than water, soft as curd,<br>
Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree.<br>
How sang the others all around?<br>
Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound,<br>
With <i>Pretty Poll, Tuwit-tuwoo<br>
Peewit, Caw Caw, Cuckoo-Cuckoo.</i><br><br>
How went the song, how looked the bird?<br>
If I could tell, if I could show<br>
With one quick phrase, one lightning word,<br>
I'd learn you more than poets know;<br>
For poets, could they only catch<br>
Of that forgotten tune one snatch,<br>
Would build it up in song or sonnet,<br>
And found their whole life's fame upon it.</blockquote>
<br>
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<a name="rockacre"></a><h3>Rocky Acres</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>This is a wild land, country of my choice,<br>
With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare.<br>
Seldom in these acres is heard any voice<br>
But voice of cold water that runs here and there<br>
Through rocks and lank heather growing without care.<br>
No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry<br>
For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky.<br><br>
He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings,<br>
He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye,<br>
He catches the trembling of small hidden things,<br>
He tears them in pieces dropping from the sky:<br>
Tenderness and pity the land will deny,<br>
Where life is but nourished from water and rock,<br>
A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock.<br><br>
Time has never journeyed to this lost land,<br>
Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date,<br>
The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand,<br>
Careless if the season be early or late.<br>
The skies wander overhead, now blue now slate:<br>
Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow<br>
If June did not borrow his armour also.<br><br>
Yet this is my country beloved by me best,<br>
The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood,<br>
Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest,<br>
Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood<br>
Bold immortal country whose hill-tops have stood<br>
Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go,<br>
Terror for fat burghers in far plains below.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="qurtime">D. H. Lawrence</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Seven Seals</h3><br>
<blockquote>Since this is the last night I keep you home,<br>
Come, I will consecrate you for the journey.<br><br>
Rather I had you would not go. Nay come,<br>
I will not again reproach you. Lie back<br>
And let me love you a long time ere you go.<br>
For you are sullen-hearted still, and lack<br>
The will to love me. But even so<br>
I will set a seal upon you from my lip,<br>
Will set a guard of honour at each door,<br>
Seal up each channel out of which might slip<br>
Your love for me.<br><br>
I kiss your mouth. Ah, love,<br>
Could I but seal its ruddy, shining spring<br>
Of passion, parch it up, destroy, remove<br>
Its softly-stirring, crimson welling-up<br>
Of kisses! Oh, help me, God! Here at the source<br>
I'd lie for ever drinking and drawing in<br>
Your fountains, as heaven drinks from out their course<br>
The floods.<br><br>
I close your ears with kisses<br>
And seal your nostrils; and round your neck you'll wear — <br>
Nay, let me work — a delicate chain of kisses.<br>
Like beads they go around, and not one misses<br>
To touch its fellow on either side.<br><br>
And there<br>
Full mid-between the champaign of your breast<br>
I place a great and burning seal of love<br>
Like a dark rose, a mystery of rest<br>
On the slow bubbling of your rhythmic heart.<br>
Nay, I persist, and very faith shall keep<br>
You integral to me. Each door, each mystic port<br>
Of egress from you I will seal and steep<br>
In perfect chrism.<br><br>
Now it is done. The mort<br>
Will sound in heaven before it is undone.<br><br>
But let me finish what I have begun<br>
And shirt you now invulnerable in the mail<br>
Of iron kisses, kisses linked like steel.<br>
Put greaves upon your thighs and knees, and frail<br>
Webbing of steel on your feet. So you shall feel<br>
Ensheathed invulnerable with me, with seven<br>
Great seals upon your outgoings, and woven<br>
Chain of my mystic will wrapped perfectly<br>
Upon you, wrapped in indomitable me.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="gravitym">Harold Monro</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>Gravity</h3>
<table summary="monro" cellspacing="50" cellpadding="1">
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">I</span</td>
<td>Fit for perpetual worship is the power<br>
That holds our bodies safely to the earth.<br><br>
When people talk of their domestic gods,<br>
Then privately I think of You.<br><br>
We ride through space upon your shoulders<br>
Conveniently and lightly set,<br>
And, so accustomed, we relax our hold,<br>
Forget the gentle motion of your body — <br>
But You do not forget.<br><br>
Sometimes you breathe a little faster,<br>
Or move a muscle:<br>
Then we remember you, O Master.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">II</span</td>
<td>When people meet in reverent groups<br>
And sing to their domestic God,<br>
You, all the time, dear tyrant, (How I laugh!)<br>
Could, without effort, place your hand among them,<br>
And sprinkle them about the desert.<br><br>
But all your ways are carefully ordered,<br>
For you have never questioned duty.<br>
We watch your everlasting combinations;<br>
We call them Fate; we turn them to our pleasure,<br>
And when they most delight us, call them beauty.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">III</span</td>
<td>I rest my body on your grass,<br>
And let my brain repose in you;<br>
I feel these living moments pass,<br>
And, from within myself to those far places<br>
To be imagined in your times and spaces,<br>
Deliberate the various acts you do: — <br><br>
Sorting and re-arranging worlds of Matter<br>
Keenly and wisely. Thus you brought our earth<br>
Through stages, and from purpose back to purpose,<br>
From fire to fog, to dust, to birth<br>
Through beast to man, who led himself to brain — <br>
Then you invoked him back to dust again.<br><br>
By leave of you he places stone on stone;<br>
He scatters seed: you are at once the prop<br>
Among the long roots of his fragile crop.<br>
You manufacture for him, and insure<br>
House, harvest, implement and furniture,<br>
And hold them all secure.</td>
</tr>
<tr align="left" valign="top">
<td><span style="font-size: 150%;">IV</span</td>
<td>The hill ... The trees ... From underneath<br>
I feel You pull me with your hand:<br>
Through my firm feet up to my heart<br>
You hold me, — You are in the land,<br>
Reposing underneath the hill.<br><br>
You keep my balance and my growth.<br>
I lift a foot, but where I go<br>
You follow: you, the ever-strong,<br>
Control the smallest thing I do.<br><br>
I have some little human power<br>
To turn your purpose to my end,<br>
For which I thank you every hour.<br>
I stand at worship, while you send<br>
Thrills up my body to my heart,<br>
And I am all in love to know<br>
How by your strength you keep me part<br>
Of earth, which cannot let me go;<br>
How everything I see around,<br>
Whether it can or cannot move,<br>
Is granted liberty of ground,<br>
And freedom to enjoy your love;<br><br>
Though you are silent always, and, alone<br>
To You yourself, your power remains unknown.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
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<h3><a name="golfm">Goldfish</a></h3>
<br>
<blockquote>They are the angels of that watery world,<br>
With so much knowledge that they just aspire<br>
To move themselves on golden fins,<br>
Or fill their paradise with fire<br>
By darting suddenly from end to end.<br><br>
Glowing a thousand centuries behind<br>
In pools half-recollected of the mind,<br>
Their large eyes stare and stare, but do not see<br>
Beyond those curtains of Eternity.<br><br>
When twilight flows into the room<br>
And air becomes like water, you can feel<br>
Their movements growing larger in the gloom,<br>
And you are led<br>
Backward to where they live beyond the dead.<br><br>
But in the morning, when the seven rays<br>
Of London sunlight one by one incline,<br>
They glide to meet them, and their gulping lips<br>
Suck the light in, so they are caught and played<br>
Like salmon on a heavenly fishing line.<br><br>
* * * * <br><br>
Ghosts on a twilight floor,<br>
Moving about behind their watery door,<br>
Breathing and yet not breathing day and night,<br>
They give the house some gleam of faint delight.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h3><a name="dogm">Dog</a></h3>
<br>
<blockquote>You little friend, your nose is ready; you sniff,<br>
Asking for that expected walk,<br>
(Your nostrils full of the happy rabbit-whiff)<br>
And almost talk.<br><br>
And so the moment becomes a moving force;<br>
Coats glide down from their pegs in the humble dark;<br>
The sticks grow live to the stride of their vagrant course.<br>
You scamper the stairs,<br>
Your body informed with the scent and the track and the mark<br>
Of stoats and weasels, moles and badgers and hares.<br><br>
We are going <i>out</i>. You know the pitch of the word,<br>
Probing the tone of thought as it comes through fog<br>
And reaches by devious means (half-smelt, half-heard)<br>
The four-legged brain of a walk-ecstatic dog.<br><br>
Out in the garden your head is already low.<br>
(Can you smell the rose? Ah, no.)<br>
But your limbs can draw<br>
Life from the earth through the touch of your padded paw.<br><br>
Now, sending a little look to us behind,<br>
Who follow slowly the track of your lovely play,<br>
You carry our bodies forward away from mind<br>
Into the light and fun of your useless day.<br><br>
* * * * *<br><br>
Thus, for your walk, we took ourselves, and went<br>
Out by the hedge and the tree to the open ground.<br>
You ran, in delightful strata of wafted scent,<br>
Over the hill without seeing the view;<br>
Beauty is smell upon primitive smell to you:<br>
To you, as to us, it is distant and rarely found.<br><br>
Home ... and further joy will be surely there:<br>
Supper waiting full of the taste of bone.<br>
You throw up your nose again, and sniff, and stare<br>
For the rapture known<br>
Of the quick wild gorge of food and the still lie-down<br>
While your people talk above you in the light<br>
Of candles, and your dreams will merge and drown<br>
Into the bed-delicious hours of night.</blockquote><br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="nightnearm"></a><h3>The Nightingale Near the House</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Here is the soundless cypress on the lawn:<br>
It listens, listens. Taller trees beyond<br>
Listen. The moon at the unruffled pond<br>
Stares. And you sing, you sing.<br><br>
That star-enchanted song falls through the air<br>
From lawn to lawn down terraces of sound,<br>
Darts in white arrows on the shadowed ground;<br>
And all the night you sing.<br><br>
My dreams are flowers to which you are a bee<br>
As all night long I listen, and my brain<br>
Receives your song, then loses it again<br>
In moonlight on the lawn.<br><br>
Now is your voice a marble high and white,<br>
Then like a mist on fields of paradise,<br>
Now is a raging fire, then is like ice,<br>
Then breaks, and it is dawn.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="mancarr"></a><h3>Man Carrying Bale</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The tough hand closes gently on the load;<br>
Out of the mind, a voice<br>
Calls 'Lift!' and the arms, remembering well their work,<br>
Lengthen and pause for help.<br>
Then a slow ripple flows from head to foot<br>
While all the muscles call to one another:<br>
'Lift! 'and the bulging bale<br>
Floats like a butterfly in June.<br><br>
So moved the earliest carrier of bales,<br>
And the same watchful sun<br>
Glowed through his body feeding it with light.<br>
So will the last one move,<br>
And halt, and dip his head, and lay his load<br>
Down, and the muscles will relax and tremble.<br>
Earth, you designed your man<br>
Beautiful both in labour and repose.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="4bessiegar"></a><h2>Thomas Moult</h2>
<br>
<h3>For Bessie, Seated by Me in the Garden</h3>
<blockquote>To the heart, to the heart the white petals<br>
Quietly fall.<br>
Memory is a little wind, and magical<br>
The dreaming hours.<br>
As a breath they fall, as a sigh;<br>
Green garden hours too langorous to waken,<br>
White leaves of blossomy tree wind-shaken:<br>
As a breath, a sigh,<br>
As the slow white drift<br>
Of a butterfly.<br>
Flower-wings falling, wings of branches<br>
One after one at wind's droop dipping;<br>
Then with the lift<br>
Of the air's soft breath, in sudden avalanches<br>
Slipping.<br>
Quietly, quietly the June wind flings<br>
White wings,<br>
White petals, past the footpath flowers<br>
Adown my dreaming hours.<br>
At the heart, at the heart the butterfly settles.<br>
As a breath, a sigh<br>
Fall the petals of hours, of the white-leafed flowers,<br>
Fall the petalled wings of the butterfly.<br>
To my heart, to my heart the white petals<br>
Quietly fall.<br><br>
To the years, other years, old and wistful<br>
Drifts my dream.<br>
Petal-patined the dream, white-mistful<br>
As the dew-sweet haunt of the dim whitebeam<br>
Because of memory, a little wind ...<br>
It is the gossamer-float of the butterfly<br>
This drift of dream<br>
From the sweet of to-day to the sweet<br>
Of days long drifted by.<br>
It is the drift of the butterfly, it is the fleet<br>
Drift of petals which my noon has thinned,<br>
It is the ebbing out of my life, of the petals of days.<br>
To the years, other years, drifts my dream....<br>
Through the haze<br>
Of summers long ago<br>
Love's entrancements flow,<br>
A blue-green pageant of earth,<br>
A green-blue pageant of sky,<br>
As a stream,<br>
Flooding back with lovely delta to my heart.<br>
Lo the petalled leafage is finer, under the feet<br>
The coarse soil with a rainbow's worth<br>
Of delicate colours lies enamelled,<br>
Translucently glowing, shining.<br>
Each balmy breath of the hours<br>
From eastern gleam to westward gloam<br>
Is meaning-full as the falling flowers:<br>
It is a crystal syllable<br>
For love's defining,<br>
It is love alone can spell — — <br>
Yea, Love remains: after this drift of days<br>
Love is here, Love is not dumb.<br>
The touch of a silken hand, comradely, untrammelled<br>
Is in the sunlight, a bright glance<br>
On every ripple of yonder waterways,<br>
A whisper in the dance<br>
Of green shadows;<br>
Nor shall the sunlight be shut out even from the dark.<br><br>
Beyond the garden heavy oaks are buoyant on the meadows,<br>
Their rugged bark<br>
No longer rough,<br>
But chastened and refined in the glowing eyes of Love.<br>
Around us the petals fulfil<br>
Their measure and fall, precious the petals are still.<br>
For Love they once were gathered, they are gathered for Love again,<br>
Whose glance is on the water,<br>
Whose whisper is in the green shadows.<br>
In the same comrade-hand whose touch is in the sunlight,<br>
They are lying again.<br>
Here Love is ... Love only of all things outstays<br>
The drift of petals, the drift of days,<br>
Petals of hours,<br>
Of white-leafed flowers,<br>
Petalled wings of the butterfly,<br>
Drifting, quietly drifting by<br>
As a breath, a sigh....</blockquote><br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="truebed"></a><h3>'Truly he hath a Sweet Bed</h3>
<blockquote>Brown earth, sun-soaked,<br>
Beneath his head<br>
And over the quiet limbs....<br>
Through time unreckoned<br>
Lay this brown earth for him. Now is he come.<br>
Truly he hath a sweet bed.<br><br>
The perfume shed<br>
From invisible gardens is chaliced by kindly airs<br>
And carried for welcome to the stranger.<br>
Long seasons ere he came, this wilderness<br>
They habited.<br><br>
They, and the mist of stars<br>
Down-spread<br>
About him as a hush of vespering birds.<br>
They, and the sun, the moon:<br>
Naught now denies him the moon's coming,<br>
Nor the morning trail of gold,<br>
The luminous print of evening, red<br>
At the sun's tread.<br><br>
The brown earth holds him.<br>
The stars and little winds, the friendly moon<br>
And sun attend in turn his rest.<br>
They linger above him, softly moving. They are gracious,<br>
And gently-wise: as though remembering how his hunger,<br>
His kinship, knew them once but blindly<br>
In thoughts unsaid,<br>
As a dream that fled.<br><br>
So is he theirs assuredly as the seasons.<br>
So is his sleep by them for ever companioned.<br>
...And, perchance, by the voices of bright children playing<br>
And knowing not: by the echo of young laughter<br>
When their dancing is sped.<br>
Truly he hath a sweet bed.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="lovlane"></a><h3>Lovers' Lane</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>This cool quiet of trees<br>
In the grey dusk of the north,<br>
In the green half-dusk of the west,<br>
Where fires still glow;<br>
These glimmering fantasies<br>
Of foliage branching forth<br>
And drooping into rest;<br>
Ye lovers, know<br>
That in your wanderings<br>
Beneath this arching brake<br>
Ye must attune your love<br>
To hushed words.<br>
For here is the dreaming wisdom of<br>
The unmovable things...<br>
And more: — walk softly, lest ye wake<br>
A thousand sleeping birds.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="spriglime">Robert Nichols</a></h2>
<br>
<h3>The Sprig of Lime</h3><br>
<blockquote>He lay, and those who watched him were amazed<br>
To see unheralded beneath the lids<br>
Twin tears, new-gathered at the price of pain,<br>
Start and at once run crookedly athwart<br>
Cheeks channelled long by pain, never by tears.<br>
So desolate too the sigh next uttered<br>
They had wept also, but his great lips moved,<br>
And bending down one heard, '<i>A sprig of lime;<br>
Bring me a sprig of lime.</i>' Whereat she stole<br>
With dumb signs forth to pluck the thing he craved.<br><br>
So lay he till a lime-twig had been snapped<br>
From some still branch that swept the outer grass<br>
Far from the silver pillar of the bole<br>
Which mounting past the house's crusted roof<br>
Split into massy limbs, crossed boughs, a maze<br>
Of close-compacted intercontorted staffs<br>
Bowered in foliage wherethrough the sun<br>
Shot sudden showers of light or crystal spars<br>
Or wavered in a green and vitreous flood.<br>
And all the while in faint and fainter tones<br>
Scarce audible on deepened evening's hush<br>
He framed his curious and last request<br>
For '<i>lime, a sprig of lime.</i>' Her trembling hand<br>
Closed his loose fingers on the awkward stem<br>
Covered above with gentle heart-shaped leaves<br>
And under dangling, pale as honey-wax,<br>
Square clusters of sweet-scented starry flowers.<br><br>
She laid his bent arm back upon his breast,<br>
Then watched above white knuckles clenched in prayer.<br><br>
He never moved. Only at last his eyes<br>
Opened, then brightened in such avid gaze<br>
She feared the coma mastered him again ...<br>
But no; strange sobs rose chuckling in his throat,<br>
A stranger ecstasy suffused the flesh<br>
Of that just mask so sun-dried, gouged and old<br>
Which few — too few! — had loved, too many feared.<br>
'Father!' she cried; 'Father!'<br>
He did not hear.<br><br>
She knelt and kneeling drank the scent of limes,<br>
Blown round the slow blind by a vesperal gust,<br>
Till the room swam. So the lime-incense blew<br>
Into her life as once it had in his,<br>
Though how and when and with what ageless charge<br>
Of sorrow and deep joy how could she know?<br><br>
Sweet lime that often at the height of noon<br>
Diffusing dizzy fragrance from your boughs,<br>
Tasselled with blossoms more innumerable<br>
Than the black bees, the uproar of whose toil<br>
Filled your green vaults, winning such metheglyn<br>
As clouds their sappy cells, distil, as once<br>
Ye used, your sunniest emanations<br>
Toward the window where a woman kneels — <br>
She who within that room in childish hours<br>
Lay through the lasting murmur of blanch'd noon<br>
Behind the sultry blind, now full now flat,<br>
Drinking anew of every odorous breath,<br>
Supremely happy in her ignorance<br>
Of Time that hastens hourly and of Death<br>
Who need not haste. Scatter your fumes, O lime,<br>
Loose from each hispid star of citron bloom,<br>
Tangled beneath the labyrinthine boughs,<br>
Cloud on such stinging cloud of exhalations<br>
As reek of youth, fierce life and summer's prime,<br>
Though hardly now shall he in that dusk room<br>
Savour your sweetness, since the very sprig,<br>
Profuse of blossom and of essences,<br>
He smells not, who in a paltering hand<br>
Clasps it laid close his peaked and gleaming face<br>
Propped in the pillow. Breathe silent, lofty lime,<br>
Your curfew secrets out in fervid scent<br>
To the attendant shadows! Tinge the air<br>
Of the midsummer night that now begins,<br>
At an owl's oaring flight from dusk to dusk<br>
And downward caper of the giddy bat<br>
Hawking against the lustre of bare skies,<br>
With something of th' unfathomable bliss<br>
He, who lies dying there, knew once of old<br>
In the serene trance of a summer night<br>
When with th' abundance of his young bride's hair<br>
Loosed on his breast he lay and dared not sleep,<br>
Listening for the scarce motion of your boughs,<br>
Which sighed with bliss as she with blissful sleep,<br>
And drinking desperately each honied wave<br>
Of perfume wafted past the ghostly blind<br>
Knew first th' implacable and bitter sense<br>
Of Time that hastes and Death who need not haste.<br>
Shed your last sweetness, limes!<br>
But now no more.<br>
She, fruit of that night's love, she heeds you not,<br>
Who bent, compassionate, to the dim floor<br>
Takes up the sprig of lime and presses it<br>
In pain against the stumbling of her heart,<br>
Knowing, untold, he cannot need it now.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp3">Contents, p. 3</a></p>
<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="17n"></a><h3>Seventeen</h3>
<br>
<i>For Anne</i>.<br>
<br>
<blockquote>All the loud winds were in the garden wood,<br>
All shadows joyfuller than lissom hounds<br>
Doubled in chasing, all exultant clouds<br>
That ever flung fierce mist and eddying fire<br>
Across heavens deeper than blue polar seas<br>
Fled over the sceptre-spikes of the chestnuts,<br>
Over the speckle of the wych-elms' green.<br>
She shouted; then stood still, hushed and abashed<br>
To hear her voice so shrill in that gay roar,<br>
And suddenly her eyelashes were dimmed,<br>
Caught in tense tears of spiritual joy;<br>
For there were daffodils which sprightly shook<br>
Ten thousand ruffling heads throughout the wood,<br>
And every flower of those delighting flowers<br>
Laughed, nodding to her, till she clapped her hands<br>
Crying 'O daffies, could you only speak!'<br><br>
But there was more. A jay with skyblue shaft<br>
Set in blunt wing, skimmed screaming on ahead.<br>
She followed him. A murrey squirrel eyed<br>
Her warily, cocked upon tail-plumed haunch,<br>
Then, skipping the whirligig of last-year leaves,<br>
Whisked himself out of sight and reappeared<br>
Leering about the hole of a young beech;<br>
And every time she thought to corner him<br>
He scrambled round on little scratchy hands<br>
To peek at her about the other side.<br>
She lost him, bolting branch to branch, at last — <br>
The impudent brat! But still high overhead<br>
Flight on exuberant flight of opal scud,<br>
Or of dissolving mist, florid as flame.<br><br>
Scattered in ecstasy over the blue. And she<br>
Followed, first walking, giving her bright locks<br>
To the cold fervour of the springtime gale,<br>
Whose rush bore the cloud shadow past the cloud<br>
Over the irised wastes of emerald turf.<br>
And still the huge wind volleyed. Save the gulls,<br>
Goldenly in the sunny blast careering<br>
Or on blue-shadowed underwing at plunge,<br>
None shared with her who now could not but run<br>
The splendour and tumult of th' onrushing spring.<br><br>
And now she ran no more: the gale gave plumes.<br>
One with the shadows whirled along the grass,<br>
One with the onward smother of veering gulls,<br>
One with the pursuit of cloud after cloud,<br>
Swept she. Pure speed coursed in immortal limbs;<br>
Nostrils drank as from wells of unknown air;<br>
Ears received the smooth silence of racing floods;<br>
Light as of glassy suns froze in her eyes;<br>
Space was given her and she ruled all space.<br><br>
Spring, author of twifold loveliness,<br>
Who flittest in the mirth of the wild folk,<br>
Profferest greeting in the faces of flowers,<br>
Blowest in the firmamental glory,<br>
Renewest in the heart of the sad human<br>
All faiths, guard thou the innocent spirit<br>
Into whose unknowing hands this noontide<br>
Thou pourest treasure, yet scarce recognised,<br>
That unashamed before man's glib wisdom,<br>
Unabashed beneath the wrath of chance,<br>
She accept in simplicity of homage<br>
The hidden holiness, the created emblem<br>
To be in her, until death shall take her,<br>
The source and secret of eternal spring.</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="strangen"></a><h3>The Stranger</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Never am I so alone<br>
As when I walk among the crowd — <br>
Blurred masks of stern or grinning stone,<br>
Unmeaning eyes and voices loud.<br><br>
Gaze dares not encounter gaze, ...<br>
Humbled, I turn my head aside;<br>
When suddenly there is a face ...<br>
Pale, subdued and grievous-eyed.<br><br>
Ah, I know that visage meek,<br>
Those trembling lips, the eyes that shine<br>
But turn from that which they would seek<br>
With an air piteous, divine!<br><br>
There is not a line or scar,<br>
Seal of a sorrow or disgrace,<br>
But I know like sigils are<br>
Burned in my heart and on my face.<br><br>
Speak! O speak! Thou art the one!<br>
But thou hast passed with sad head bowed;<br>
And never am I so alone<br>
As when I walk among the crowd.</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="onightn"></a><h3>'O Nightingale My Heart'</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>O Nightingale my heart<br>
How sad thou art!<br>
How heavy is thy wing,<br>
Desperately whirrëd that thy throat may fling<br>
Song to the tingling silences remote!<br>
Thine eye whose ruddy spark<br>
Burned fiery of late,<br>
How dead and dark!<br>
Why so soon didst thou sing,<br>
And with such turbulence of love and hate?<br><br>
Learn that there is no singing yet can bring<br>
The expected dawn more near;<br>
And thou art spent already, though the night<br>
Scarce has begun;<br>
What voice, what eyes wilt thou have for the light<br>
When the light shall appear,<br>
And O what wings to bear thee t'ward the Sun?</blockquote>
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<a name="pilgrimn"></a><h3>The Pilgrim</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Put by the sun my joyful soul,<br>
We are for darkness that is whole;<br><br>
Put by the wine, now for long years<br>
We must be thirsty with salt tears;<br><br>
Put by the rose, bind thou instead<br>
The fiercest thorns about thy head;<br><br>
Put by the courteous tire, we need<br>
But the poor pilgrim's blackest weed;<br><br>
Put by — a'beit with tears — thy lute,<br>
Sing but to God or else be mute.<br><br>
Take leave of friends save such as dare<br>
Thy love with Loneliness to share.<br><br>
It is full tide. Put by regret.<br>
Turn, turn away. Forget. Forget.<br><br>
Put by the sun my lightless soul,<br>
We are for darkness that is whole.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="templef">J. D. C. Fellow</a></h2><br>
<h3>The Temple</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Between the erect and solemn trees<br>
I will go down upon my knees;<br>
I shall not find this day<br>
So meet a place to pray.<br><br>
Haply the beauty of this place<br>
May work in me an answering grace,<br>
The stillness of the air<br>
Be echoed in my prayer.<br><br>
The worshipping trees arise and run,<br>
With never a swerve, towards the sun;<br>
So may my soul's desire<br>
Turn to its central fire.<br><br>
With single aim they seek the light,<br>
And scarce a twig in all their height<br>
Breaks out until the head<br>
In glory is outspread.<br><br>
How strong each pillared trunk; the bark<br>
That covers them, how smooth; and hark,<br>
The sweet and gentle voice<br>
With which the leaves rejoice!<br><br>
May a like strength and sweetness fill<br>
Desire, and thought, and steadfast will,<br>
When I remember these<br>
Fair sacramental trees!</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="sickleave">Siegfried Sassoon</a></h2><br>
<h3>Sick Leave</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm, — <br>
They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead.<br>
While the dim charging breakers of the storm<br>
Bellow and drone and rumble overhead,<br>
Out of the gloom they gather about my bed.<br>
They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine.<br>
'Why are you here with all your watches ended?<br>
From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line.'<br>
In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;<br>
And while the dawn begins with slashing rain<br>
I think of the Battalion in the mud.<br>
'When are you going out to them again?<br>
Are they not still your brothers through our blood?'</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="banishs"></a><h3>Banishment</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>I am banished from the patient men who fight.<br>
They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.<br>
Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side,<br>
They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.<br>
Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight<br>
They went arrayed in honour. But they died, — <br>
Not one by one: and mutinous I cried<br>
To those who sent them out into the night.<br><br>
The darkness tells how vainly I have striven<br>
To free them from the pit where they must dwell<br>
In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven<br>
By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.<br>
Love drives me back to grope with them through hell;<br>
And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="repress"></a><h3>Repression of War Experience</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;<br>
What silly beggars they are to blunder in<br>
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame — <br>
No, no, not that, — it's bad to think of war,<br>
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you;<br>
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad<br>
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts<br>
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.<br><br>
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.<br>
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,<br>
And you're as right as rain....<br>
Why won't it rain?...<br>
I wish there'd be a thunderstorm to-night,<br>
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,<br>
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.<br><br>
Books; what a jolly company they are,<br>
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,<br>
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,<br>
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?<br>
Come on; O <i>do</i> read something; they're so wise.<br>
I tell you all the wisdom of the world<br>
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet<br>
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,<br>
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling<br>
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;<br>
And in the breathless air outside the house<br>
The garden waits for something that delays.<br>
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees, — <br>
Not people killed in battle, — they're in France, — <br>
But horrible shapes in shrouds — old men who died<br>
Slow, natural deaths, — old men with ugly souls,<br>
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.<br><br>
* * * * *<br><br>
You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;<br>
You'd never think there was a bloody war on!...<br>
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.<br>
Hark! Thud, thud, thud, — quite soft ... they never cease — <br>
Those whispering guns — O Christ, I want to go out<br>
And screech at them to stop — I'm going crazy;<br>
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.</blockquote>
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<a name="doesits"></a><h3>Does it Matter?</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Does it matter? — losing your legs?...<br>
For people will always be kind,<br>
And you need not show that you mind<br>
When the others come in after hunting<br>
To gobble their muffins and eggs.<br><br>
Does it matter? — losing your sight?...<br>
There's such splendid work for the blind;<br>
And people will always be kind,<br>
As you sit on the terrace remembering<br>
And turning your face to the light.<br><br>
Do they matter? — those dreams from the pit?...<br>
You can drink and forget and be glad,<br>
And people won't say that you're mad;<br>
For they'll know that you've fought for your country,<br>
And no one will worry a bit.</blockquote>
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<a name="concerts"></a><h3>Concert Party</h3>
<br>
(<i>Egyptian Base Camp</i>).<br>
<br>
<blockquote>They are gathering round ...<br>
Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,<br>
Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound — <br>
The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum ...<br>
Drawn by a lamp, they come<br>
Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.<br><br>
O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,<br>
You warbling ladies in white.<br>
Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,<br>
This wall of faces risen out of the night,<br>
These eyes that keep their memories of the places<br>
So long beyond their sight.<br><br>
Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown<br>
Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,<br>
He rattles the keys ... Some actor-bloke from town ...<br>
<i>God send you home</i>; and then <i>A long, long trail;<br>
I hear you calling me</i>; and <i>Dixieland</i>....<br>
Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one<br>
We hear them, drink them; till the concert's done.<br>
Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.<br>
Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.</blockquote><br>
KANTARA, <i>April, 1918</i>.<br>
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<a name="songwar"></a><h3>Songbooks of the War</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>In fifty years, when peace outshines<br>
Remembrance of the battle lines,<br>
Adventurous lads will sigh and cast<br>
Proud looks upon the plundered past.<br>
On summer morn or winter's night,<br>
Their hearts will kindle for the fight,<br>
Reading a snatch of soldier-song,<br>
Savage and jaunty, fierce and strong;<br>
And through the angry marching rhymes<br>
Of blind regret and haggard mirth,<br>
They'll envy us the dazzling times<br>
When sacrifice absolved our earth.<br><br>
Some ancient man with silver locks<br>
Will lift his weary face to say:<br>
'War was a fiend who stopped our clocks<br>
Although we met him grim and gay.'<br>
And then he'll speak of Haig's last drive,<br>
Marvelling that any came alive<br>
Out of the shambles that men built<br>
And smashed, to cleanse the world of guilt.<br>
But the boys, with grin and sidelong glance,<br>
Will think, 'Poor grandad's day is done.'<br>
And dream of those who fought in France<br>
And lived in time to share the fun.</blockquote>
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<a name="portrait"></a><h3>The Portrait</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>I watch you, gazing at me from the wall,<br>
And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine,<br>
If, mastering time's illusion, I could call<br>
You back to share this quiet candle-shine.<br><br>
For you were young, three hundred years ago;<br>
And by your looks I guess that you were wise ...<br>
Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know<br>
You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes.<br><br>
Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long,<br>
And all your pride forgotten like your name.<br>
<i>'One April morn I heard a blackbird's song.<br>
And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame.'</i><br><br>
And so you died before your songs took wing;<br>
While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake.<br>
<i>'Love thrilled me into music. I could sing<br>
But for a moment, — but for beauty's sake.'</i><br><br>
Who passes? There's a star-lit breeze that stirs<br>
The glimmer of white lilies in the gloom.<br>
Who speaks? Death has his silent messengers.<br>
And there was more than silence in this room<br><br>
While you were gazing at me from the wall<br>
And wondering how you'd match your dreams with mine,<br>
If, mastering time's illusion, you could call<br>
Me back to share your vanished candle-shine.</blockquote>
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<a name="thrush"></a><h3>Thrushes</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim,<br>
Whose voices make the emptiness of light<br>
A windy palace. Quavering from the brim<br>
Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,<br>
They clutch their leafy pinnacles and sing<br>
Scornful of man, and from his toils aloof<br>
Whose heart's a haunted woodland whispering;<br>
Whose thoughts return on tempest-baffled wing;<br>
Who hears the cry of God in everything,<br>
And storms the gate of nothingness for proof.</blockquote>
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<a name="everys"></a><h3>Everyone Sang</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Everyone suddenly burst out singing;<br>
And I was filled with such delight<br>
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,<br>
Winging wildly across the white<br>
Orchards and dark-green fields; on — on — and out of sight.<br><br>
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;<br>
And beauty came like the setting sun:<br>
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror<br>
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone<br>
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="nightps">Edward Shanks</a></h2><br>
<h3>A Night Piece</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Come out and walk. The last few drops of light<br>
Drain silently out of the cloudy blue;<br>
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night,<br>
The fields are wet with dew.<br><br>
All's quiet in the wood but, far away,<br>
Down the hillside and out across the plain,<br>
Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way,<br>
The softly panting train.<br><br>
Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see<br>
The flowers, save dark or light against the grass,<br>
Or glimmering silver on a scented tree<br>
That trembles as we pass.<br><br>
Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ...<br>
Move not the rustling grasses with your feet.<br>
The dusk is full of sounds, that all along<br>
The muttering boughs repeat.<br><br>
So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt.<br>
Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears,<br>
Has feigned a dubious and delusive note,<br>
Such as a dreamer hears.<br><br>
Again ... again! The faint sounds rise and fail.<br>
So far the enchanted tree, the song so low...<br>
A drowsy thrush? A waking nightingale?<br>
Silence. We do not know.</blockquote>
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<a name="absents"></a><h3>In Absence</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>My lovely one, be near to me to-night.<br>
For now I need you most, since I have gone<br>
Through the sparse woodland in the fading light,<br>
Where in time past we two have walked alone,<br>
Heard the loud nightjar spin his pleasant note,<br>
And seen the wild rose folded up for sleep,<br>
And whispered, though the soft word choked my throat,<br>
Your dear name out across the valley deep.<br>
Be near to me, for now I need you most.<br>
To-night I saw an unsubstantial flame<br>
Flickering along those shadowy paths, a ghost<br>
That turned to me and answered to your name,<br>
Mocking me with a wraith of far delight.<br>
... My lovely one, be near to me to-night.</blockquote>
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<a name="gloworm"></a><h3>The Glow-Worm</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The pale road winds faintly upward into the dark skies,<br>
And beside it on the rough grass that the wind invisibly stirs,<br>
Sheltered by sharp-speared gorse and the berried junipers,<br>
Shining steadily with a green light, the glow-worm lies.<br><br>
We regard it; and this hill and all the other hills<br>
That fall in folds to the river, very smooth and steep,<br>
And the hangers and brakes that the darkness thickly fills<br>
Fade like phantoms round the light, and night is deep, so deep, — <br><br>
That all the world is emptiness about the still flame,<br>
And we are small shadows standing lost in the huge night.<br>
We gather up the glow-worm, stooping with dazzled sight,<br>
And carry it to the little enclosed garden whence we came,<br><br>
And place it on the short grass. Then the shadowy flowers fade,<br>
The walls waver and melt and the houses disappear<br>
And the solid town trembles into insubstantial shade<br>
Round the light of the burning glow-worm, steady and clear.</blockquote>
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<a name="cataclysm"></a><h3>The Cataclysm</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When a great wave disturbs the ocean cold<br>
And throws the bottom waters to the sky,<br>
Strange apparitions on the surface lie,<br>
Great battered vessels, stripped of gloss and gold,<br>
And, writhing in their pain, sea-monsters old,<br>
Who stain the waters with a bloody dye,<br>
With unaccustomed mouths bellow and cry<br>
And vex the waves with struggling fin and fold.<br><br>
And with these too come little trivial things<br>
Tossed from the deeps by the same casual hand;<br>
A faint sea flower, dragged from the lowest sand,<br>
That will not undulate its luminous wings<br>
In the slow tides again, lies dead and swings<br>
Along the muddy ripples to the land.</blockquote>
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<a name="holelms"></a><h3>A Hollow Elm</h3>
<br>
<blockquote> What hast thou not withstood,<br>
Tempest-despising tree,<br>
Whose bloat and riven wood<br>
Gapes now so hollowly,<br>
What rains have beaten thee through many years,<br>
What snows from off thy branches dripped like tears?<br><br>
Calmly thou standest now<br>
Upon thy sunny mound;<br>
The first spring breezes flow<br>
Past with sweet dizzy sound;<br>
Yet on thy pollard top the branches few<br>
Stand stiffly out, disdain to murmur too.<br><br>
The children at thy foot<br>
Open new-lighted eyes,<br>
Where, on gnarled bark and root,<br>
The soft warm sunshine lies — <br>
Dost thou, upon thine ancient sides, resent<br>
The touch of youth, quick and impermanent?<br><br>
These at the beck of spring<br>
Live in the moment still:<br>
Thy boughs unquivering,<br>
Remembering winter's chill,<br>
And many other winters past and gone,<br>
Are mocked, not cheated, by the transient sun.<br><br>
Hast thou so much withstood,<br>
Tempest-despising tree,<br>
That now thy hollow wood<br>
Stiffens disdainfully<br>
Against the soft spring airs and soft spring rain,<br>
Knowing too well that winter comes again?</blockquote>
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<a name="festgal"></a><h3>Fête Galante; the Triumph of Love</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Aristonoë, the fading shepherdess,<br>
Gathers the young girls round her in a ring,<br>
Teaching them wisdom of love,<br>
What to say, how to dress,<br>
How frown, how smile,<br>
How suitors to their dancing feet to bring,<br>
How in mere walking to beguile,<br>
What words cunningly said in what a way<br>
Will draw man's busy fancy astray,<br>
All the alphabet, grammar and syntax of love.<br><br>
The garden smells are sweet,<br>
Daisies spring in the turf under the high-heeled feet,<br>
Dense, dark banks of laurel grow<br>
Behind the wavering row<br>
Of golden, flaxen, black, brown, auburn heads,<br>
Behind the light and shimmering dresses<br>
Of these unreal, modern shepherdesses;<br>
And gaudy flowers in formal patterned beds<br>
Vary the dim long vistas of the park,<br>
Far as the eye can see,<br>
Till at the forest's edge the ground grows dark<br>
And the flowers vanish in the obscurity.<br><br>
The young girls gather round her,<br>
Remembering eagerly how their fathers found her<br>
Fresh as a spring-like wind in February,<br>
Subtler in her moving heart than sun-motes that vary<br>
At every waft of an opening and shutting door;<br>
They gather chattering near,<br>
Hush, break out in laughter, whisper aside,<br>
Grow silent more and more, <br>
Though she will never chide.<br>
Now through the silence sounds her voice still clear,<br>
And all give ear.<br>
Like a silver thread through the golden afternoon,<br>
Equably the voice discloses<br>
All that age-old wisdom; like an endless tune<br>
Aristonoë's voice wavers among the roses,<br>
Level and unimpassioned,<br>
Telling them how of nothing love is fashioned,<br>
How it is but a movement of the mind,<br>
Bidding Celia mark<br>
That light skirts fluttering in the wind,<br>
Or white flowers stuck in dark<br>
Glistening hair, have fired the dull beholder,<br>
Or telling Anais<br>
That faint indifference ere now hath bred a kiss<br>
Denied to flaunted snowy breast or shoulder.<br><br>
The girls attend,<br>
Each thinking on her friend,<br>
Whether he be real or imaginary,<br>
Whether he be loving or cold;<br>
For each ere she grows old<br>
Means to pursue her joy, and the whole unwary<br>
Troop of their wishes has this wild quarry in cry,<br>
That draws them ineluctably,<br>
More and more as the summer slippeth by.<br>
And Celia leans aside<br>
To contemplate her black-silked ankle on the grass;<br>
In remote dreaming pride,<br>
Rosalind recalls the image in her glass;<br>
Phillis through all her body feels<br>
How divine energy steals,<br>
Quiescent power and resting speed,<br>
Stretches her arms out, feels the warm blood run<br>
Ready for pursuit, for strife and deed,<br>
And turns her glowing face up to the sun.<br>
Phillida smiles,<br>
And lazily trusts her lazy wit,<br>
A slow arrow that hath often hit;<br>
Chloe, bemused by many subtle wiles,<br>
Grows not more dangerous for all of it,<br>
But opens her red lips, yawning drowsily,<br>
And shows her small white teeth,<br>
Dimpling the round chin beneath,<br>
And stretches, moving her young body deliciously.<br><br>
And still the lesson goes on,<br>
For this is an old story that is never done;<br>
And now the precept is of ribbon and shoe,<br>
What with linens and silks love finds to do,<br>
And how man's heart is tangled in a string<br>
Or taken in gauze like a weak and helpless thing.<br>
Chloe falls asleep; and the long summer day<br>
Drifts slowly past the girls and the warm roses,<br>
Giving in dreams its hours away.<br>
Now Stella throws her head back, and Phillis disposes<br>
Her strong brown hands quietly in her lap,<br>
And Rose's slender feet grow restless and tap<br>
The turf to an imaginary tune.<br>
Now all this grace of youthful bodies and faces<br>
Is wrought to a glow by the golden weather of June;<br>
Now, Love, completing grace of all the graces,<br>
Strong in these hearts thy pure streams rise,<br>
Transmuting what they learn by heavenly alchemies.<br>
Swift from the listeners the spell vanishes,<br>
And through the tinkling, empty words, <br>
True thoughts of true love press, <br>
Flying and wheeling nearer;<br>
As through a sunny sky a flock of birds<br>
Against the throbbing blue grows clearer and clearer,<br>
So closer come these thoughts and dearer.<br><br>
Helen rises with a laugh;<br>
Chloe wakes;<br>
All the enchantment scatters off like chaff;<br>
The cord is loosened and the spell breaks.<br>
Rosalind<br>
Resolves that to-night she will be kind to her lover,<br>
Unreflecting, warm and kind.<br>
Celia tells the lessons over,<br>
Counting on her fingers — one and two ...<br>
Ribbon and shoe,<br>
Skirts, flowers, song, dancing, laughter, eyes ...<br>
Through the whole catalogue of formal gallantry<br>
And studious coquetries,<br>
Counting to herself maliciously.<br><br>
But the old, the fading shepherdess, Aristonoë,<br>
Rises stiffly and walks alone<br>
Down the broad path where densely the laurels grow,<br>
And over a little lawn, not closely mown,<br>
Where wave the flowering grass and the rich meadowsweet.<br>
She seems to walk painfully now and slow, <br>
And drags a little on her high-heeled feet.<br>
She stops at last below<br>
An old and twisted plum-tree, whose last petal is gone,<br>
Leans on the comfortable, rugged bole,<br>
And stares through the green leaves at the drooping sun.<br>
The tree and the warm light comfort her ageing soul.<br><br>
On the other lawn behind her, out of sight,<br>
The girls at play<br>
Drive out melancholy by lively delight,<br>
And the wind carries their songs and laughter away.<br>
Some begin dancing and seriously tread<br>
A modern measure up and down the grass,<br>
Turn, slide with bending knees, and pass<br>
With dipping hand and poising head,<br>
Float through the sun in pairs, like newly shed<br>
And golden leaves astray<br>
Upon the warm wind of an autumn day,<br>
When the Indian summer rules the air.<br>
Others, having found,<br>
Lying idly on the sun-hot ground,<br>
Shuttlecocks and battledores,<br>
Play with the buoyant feathers and stare<br>
Dazzled at the plaything as it soars,<br>
Vague against the shining sky,<br>
Where light yet throbs and confuses the eye,<br>
Then see it again, white and clear,<br>
As slowly, poisèdly it falls by<br>
The dark green foliage and floats near.<br>
But Celia, apart, is pensive and must sigh,<br>
And Anais but faintly pursues the game.<br>
An encroaching, inner flame<br>
Burns in their hearts with the acrid smoke of unrest;<br>
But gaiety runs like quicksilver in Rose's breast,<br>
And Phillis, rising,<br>
Walks by herself with high and springy tread,<br>
All her young blood racing from heels to head,<br>
Breeding new desires and a new surprising<br>
Strength and determination,<br>
Whereof are bred<br>
Confidence and joy and exultation.<br><br>
The long day closes; <br>
Rosalind's hour draws near, and Chloe's and Rose's,<br>
The hour that Celia has prayed,<br>
The hour for which Anais and Stella have stayed,<br>
When Helen shall forget her wit,<br>
And Phillida by a sure arrow at length be hit,<br>
And Phillis, the fleet runner, be at length overtaken;<br>
When this bough of young blossoms<br>
By the rough, eager gatherers shall be shaken.<br>
Their eyes grow dim,<br>
Their hearts flutter like taken birds in their bosoms,<br>
As the light dies out of heaven,<br>
And a faint, delicious tremor runs through every limb,<br>
And faster the volatile blood through their veins is driven.<br><br>
The long day closes;<br>
The last light fades in the amber sky;<br>
Warm through the warm dusk glow the roses,<br>
And a heavier shade drops slowly from the trees,<br>
While through the garden as all colours die<br>
The scents come livelier on the quickening breeze.<br>
The world grows larger, vaguer, dimmer,<br>
Over the dark laurels a few faint stars glimmer;<br>
The moon, that was a pallid ghost,<br>
Hung low on the horizon, faint and lost,<br>
Comes up, a full and splendid golden round<br>
By black and sharp-cut foliage overcrossed.<br>
The girls laugh and whisper now with hardly a sound<br>
Till all sound vanishes, dispersed in the night,<br>
Like a wisp of cloud that fades in the moon's light,<br>
And the garden grows silent and the shadows grow<br>
Deeper and blacker below<br>
The mysteriously moving and murmuring trees,<br>
That stand out darkly against the star-luminous sky;<br>
Huge stand the trees,<br>
Shadowy, whispering immensities,<br>
That rain down quietude and darkness on heart and eye.<br>
None move, none speak, none sigh<br>
But from the laurels comes a leaping voice<br>
Crying in tones that seem not man's nor boy's,<br>
But only joy's,<br>
And hard behind a loud tumultuous crying,<br>
A tangled skein of noise,<br>
And the girls see their lovers come, each vying<br>
Against the next in glad and confident poise,<br>
Or softly moving<br>
To the side of the chosen with gentle words and loving<br>
Gifts for her pleasure of sweetmeats and jewelled toys.<br><br>
Dear Love, whose strength no pedantry can stir,<br>
Whether in thine iron enemies,<br>
Or in thine own strayed follower<br>
Bemused with subtleties and sophistries,<br>
Now dost thou rule the garden, now<br>
The gatherers' hands have grasped the scented bough.<br><br>
Slow the sweet hours resolve, and one by one are sped.<br>
The garden lieth empty. Overhead<br>
A nightjar rustles by, wing touching wing,<br>
And passes, uttering<br>
His hoarse and whirring note.<br>
The daylight birds long since are fled,<br>
Nor has the moon yet touched the brown bird's throat.<br><br>
All's quiet, all is silent, all around <br>
The day's heat rises gently from the ground, <br>
And still the broad moon travels up the sky,<br>
Now glancing through the trees and now so high<br>
That all the garden through her rays are shed,<br>
And from the laurels one can just descry<br>
Where in the distance looms enormously<br>
The old house, with all its windows black and dead.</blockquote>
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<a name="songes"></a><h3>Song</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>As I lay in the early sun,<br>
Stretched in the grass, I thought upon<br>
My true love, my dear love,<br>
Who has my heart for ever,<br>
Who is my happiness when we meet,<br>
My sorrow when we sever.<br>
She is all fire when I do burn,<br>
Gentle when I moody turn,<br>
Brave when I am sad and heavy<br>
And all laughter when I am merry.<br>
And so I lay and dreamed and dreamed,<br>
And so the day wheeled on,<br>
While all the birds with thoughts like mine<br>
Were singing to the sun.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="dreames">Fredegond Shove</a></h2><br>
<h3>A Dream in Early Spring</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Now when I sleep the thrush breaks through my dreams<br>
With sharp reminders of the coming day:<br>
After his call, one minute I remain<br>
Unwaked, and on the darkness which is Me<br>
There springs the image of a daffodil,<br>
Growing upon a grassy bank alone,<br>
And seeming with great joy his bell to fill<br>
With drops of golden dew, which on the lawn<br>
He shakes again, where they lie bright and chill.<br><br>
His head is drooped; the shrouded winds that sing<br>
Bend him which way they will: never on earth<br>
Was there before so beautiful a ghost.<br>
Alas! he had a less than flower-birth,<br>
And like a ghost indeed must shortly glide<br>
From all but the sad cells of memory,<br>
Where he will linger, an imprisoned beam,<br>
Or fallen shadow of the golden world,<br>
Long after this and many another dream.</blockquote>
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<hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="worldsh"></a><h3>The World</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>I wish this world and its green hills were mine,<br>
But it is not; the wandering shepherd star<br>
Is not more distant, gazing from afar<br>
On the unreapèd pastures of the sea,<br>
Than I am from the world, the world from me.<br>
At night the stars on milky way that shine<br>
Seem things one might possess, but this round green<br>
Is for the cows that rest, these and the sheep:<br>
To them the slopes and pastures offer sleep;<br>
My sleep I draw from the far fields of blue,<br>
Whence cold winds come and go among the few<br>
Bright stars we see and many more unseen.<br><br>
Birds sing on earth all day among the flowers,<br>
Taking no thought of any other thing<br>
But their own hearts, for out of them they sing:<br>
Their songs are kindred to the blossom heads,<br>
Faint as the petals which the blackthorn sheds,<br>
And like the earth — not alien songs as ours.<br>
To them this greenness and this island peace<br>
Are life and death and happiness in one;<br>
Nor are they separate from the white sun,<br>
Or those warm winds which nightly wash the deep<br>
Or starlight in the valleys, or new sleep;<br>
And from these things they ask for no release.<br><br>
But we can never call this world our own,<br>
Because we long for it, and yet we know<br>
That should the great winds call us, we should go;<br>
Should they come calling out across the cold,<br>
We should rise up and leave the sheltered fold<br>
And follow the great road to the unknown,<br>
We should pass by the barns and haystacks brown, <br>
Should leave the wild pool and the nightingale; <br>
Across the ocean we should set a sail<br>
And, coming to the world's pale brim, should fly<br>
Out to the very middle of the sky,<br>
On past the moon; nor should we once look down.</blockquote>
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<a name="newgh"></a><h3>The New Ghost</h3>
<br>
<i>'And he, casting away his garment, rose and came to Jesus.'</i><br>
<br>
<blockquote>And he cast it down, down, on the green grass,<br>
Over the young crocuses, where the dew was — <br>
He cast the garment of his flesh that was full of death,<br>
And like a sword his spirit showed out of the cold sheath.<br><br>
He went a pace or two, he went to meet his Lord,<br>
And, as I said, his spirit looked like a clean sword,<br>
And seeing him the naked trees began shivering,<br>
And all the birds cried out aloud as it were late spring.<br><br>
And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw<br>
That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw,<br>
And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play,<br>
And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away.<br><br>
The Lord held his head fast, and you could see<br>
That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free — <br>
As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground;<br>
And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found.<br><br>
The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord's word — <br>
As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird — <br>
So the ghost's feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord's cheek,<br>
And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak.<br><br>
But the Lord went then, to show him the way,<br>
Over the young crocuses, under the green may<br>
That was not quite in flower yet — to a far-distant land;<br>
And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun's hand.</blockquote>
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<a name="dreamcreate"></a><h3>A Man Dreams that he is the Creator</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>I sat in heaven like the sun<br>
Above a storm when winter was:<br>
I took the snowflakes one by one<br>
And turned their fragile shapes to glass:<br>
I washed the rivers blue with rain<br>
And made the meadows green again.<br><br>
I took the birds and touched their springs,<br>
Until they sang unearthly joys:<br>
They flew about on golden wings<br>
And glittered like an angel's toys:<br>
I filled the fields with flowers' eyes,<br>
As white as stars in Paradise.<br><br>
And then I looked on man and knew<br>
Him still intent on death — still proud;<br>
Whereat into a rage I flew<br>
And turned my body to a cloud:<br>
In the dark shower of my soul<br>
The star of earth was swallowed whole.</blockquote>
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<h2><a name="riverss">J. C. Squire</a></h2><br>
<h3>Rivers</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Rivers I have seen which were beautiful,<br>
Slow rivers winding in the flat fens,<br>
With bands of reeds like thronged green swords<br>
Guarding the mirrored sky;<br>
And streams down-tumbling from the chalk hills<br>
To valleys of meadows and watercress-beds,<br>
And bridges whereunder, dark weed-coloured shadows,<br>
Trout flit or lie,<br><br>
I know those rivers that peacefully glide<br>
Past old towers and shaven gardens,<br>
Where mottled walls rise from the water<br>
And mills all streaked with flour;<br>
And rivers with wharves and rusty shipping,<br>
That flow with a stately tidal motion<br>
Towards their destined estuaries<br>
Full of the pride of power;<br><br>
Noble great rivers, Thames and Severn,<br>
Tweed with his gateway of many grey arches,<br>
Clyde, dying at sunset westward<br>
In a sea as red as blood;<br>
Rhine and his hills in close procession,<br>
Placid Elbe, Seine slaty and swirling,<br>
And Isar, son of the Alpine snows,<br>
A furious turquoise flood.<br><br>
All these I have known, and with slow eyes<br>
I have walked on their shores and watched them,<br>
And softened to their beauty and loved them<br>
Wherever my feet have been;<br><br>
And a hundred others also<br>
Whose names long since grew into me,<br>
That, dreaming in light or darkness,<br>
I have seen, though I have not seen.<br><br>
Those rivers of thought: cold Ebro,<br>
And blue racing Guadiana,<br>
Passing white houses, high-balconied<br>
That ache in a sun-baked land,<br>
Congo, and Nile and Colorado,<br>
Niger, Indus, Zambesi,<br>
And the Yellow River, and the Oxus,<br>
And the river that dies in sand.<br><br>
What splendours are theirs, what continents,<br>
What tribes of men, what basking plains,<br>
Forests and lion-hided deserts,<br>
Marshes, ravines and falls:<br>
All hues and shapes and tempers<br>
Wandering they take as they wander<br>
From those far springs that endlessly<br>
The far sea calls.<br><br>
O in reverie I know the Volga<br>
That turns his back upon Europe,<br>
And the two great cities on his banks,<br>
Novgorod and Astrakhan;<br>
Where the world is a few soft colours,<br>
And under the dove-like evening<br>
The boatmen chant ancient songs,<br>
The tenderest known to man.<br><br>
And the holy river Ganges,<br>
His fretted cities veiled in moonlight,<br>
Arches and buttresses silver-shadowy <br>
In the high moon, <br><br>
And palms grouped in the moonlight<br>
And fanes girdled with cypresses,<br>
Their domes of marble softly shining<br>
To the high silver moon.<br>
And that aged Brahmapootra<br>
Who beyond the white Himalayas<br>
Passes many a lamassery<br>
On rocks forlorn and frore,<br>
A block of gaunt grey stone walls<br>
With rows of little barred windows,<br>
Where shrivelled young monks in yellow silk<br>
Are hidden for evermore....<br><br>
But O that great river, the Amazon,<br>
I have sailed up its gulf with eyelids closed,<br>
And the yellow waters tumbled round,<br>
And all was rimmed with sky,<br>
Till the banks drew in, and the trees' heads,<br>
And the lines of green grew higher<br>
And I breathed deep, and there above me<br>
The forest wall stood high.<br><br>
Those forest walls of the Amazon<br>
Are level under the blazing blue<br>
And yield no sound but the whistles and shrieks<br>
Of the swarming bright macaws;<br>
And under their lowest drooping boughs<br>
Mud-banks torpidly bubble,<br>
And the water drifts, and logs in the water<br>
Drift and twist and pause.<br><br>
And everywhere, tacitly joining,<br>
Float noiseless tributaries,<br>
Tall avenues paved with water:<br>
And as I silent fly<br>
The vegetation like a painted scene,<br>
Spars and spikes and monstrous fans<br>
And ferns from hairy sheaths up-springing,<br>
Evenly passes by.<br><br>
And stealthier stagnant channels<br>
Under low niches of drooping leaves<br>
Coil into deep recesses:<br>
And there have I entered, there<br>
To heavy, hot, dense, dim places<br>
Where creepers climb and sweat and climb,<br>
And the drip and splash of oozing water<br>
Loads the stifling air.<br><br>
Rotting scrofulous steaming trunks,<br>
Great horned emerald beetles crawling,<br>
Ants and huge slow butterflies<br>
That had strayed and lost the sun;<br>
Ah, sick I have swooned as the air thickened<br>
To a pallid brown ecliptic glow,<br>
And on the forest, fallen with languor,<br>
Thunder has begun.<br><br>
Thunder in the dun dusk, thunder<br>
Rolling and battering and cracking,<br>
The caverns shudder with a terrible glare<br>
Again and again and again,<br>
Till the land bows in the darkness,<br>
Utterly lost and defenceless,<br>
Smitten and blinded and overwhelmed<br>
By the crashing rods of rain.<br><br>
And then in the forests of the Amazon,<br>
When the rain has ended, and silence come,<br>
What dark luxuriance unfolds<br>
From behind the night's drawn bars:<br>
The wreathing odours of a thousand trees<br>
And the flowers' faint gleaming presences,<br>
And over the clearings and the still waters<br>
Soft indigo and hanging stars.<br><br>
* * * * *<br><br>
O many and many are rivers,<br>
And beautiful are all rivers,<br>
And lovely is water everywhere<br>
That leaps or glides or stays;<br>
Yet by starlight, moonlight, or sunlight,<br>
Long, long though they look, these wandering eyes,<br>
Even on the fairest waters of dream,<br>
Never untroubled gaze.<br><br>
For whatever stream I stand by,<br>
And whatever river I dream of,<br>
There is something still in the back of my mind<br>
From very far away;<br>
There is something I saw and see not,<br>
A country full of rivers<br>
That stirs in my heart and speaks to me<br>
More sure, more dear than they.<br><br>
And always I ask and wonder<br>
(Though often I do not know it):<br>
Why does this water not smell like water?<br>
Where is the moss that grew<br>
Wet and dry on the slabs of granite<br>
And the round stones in clear brown water?<br>
— And a pale film rises before them<br>
Of the rivers that first I knew.<br><br>
Though famous are the rivers of the great world,<br>
Though my heart from those alien waters drinks<br>
Delight however pure from their loveliness,<br>
And awe however deep,<br>
Would I wish for a moment the miracle,<br>
That those waters should come to Chagford,<br>
Or gather and swell in Tavy Cleave<br>
Where the stones cling to the steep?<br><br>
No, even were they Ganges and Amazon<br>
In all their great might and majesty,<br>
League upon league of wonders,<br>
I would lose them all, and more,<br>
For a light chiming of small bells,<br>
A twisting flash in the granite,<br>
The tiny thread of a pixie waterfall<br>
That lives by Vixen Tor.<br><br>
Those rivers in that lost country,<br>
They were brown as a clear brown bead is<br>
Or red with the earth that rain washed down,<br>
Or white with china-clay;<br>
And some tossed foaming over boulders,<br>
And some curved mild and tranquil,<br>
In wooded vales securely set<br>
Under the fond warm day.<br><br>
Okement and Erme and Avon,<br>
Exe and his ruffled shallows,<br>
I could cry as I think of those rivers<br>
That knew my morning dreams;<br>
The weir by Tavistock at evening<br>
When the circling woods were purple,<br>
And the Lowman in spring with the lent-lilies,<br>
And the little moorland streams.<br><br>
For many a hillside streamlet <br>
There falls with a broken tinkle, <br>
Falling and dying, falling and dying,<br>
In little cascades and pools,<br>
Where the world is furze and heather<br>
And flashing plovers and fixed larks,<br>
And an empty sky, whitish blue,<br>
That small world rules.<br><br>
There, there, where the high waste bog-lands<br>
And the drooping slopes and the spreading valleys,<br>
The orchards and the cattle-sprinkled pastures<br>
Those travelling musics fill,<br>
There is my lost Abana,<br>
And there is my nameless Pharphar<br>
That mixed with my heart when I was a boy,<br>
And time stood still.<br><br>
And I say I will go there and die there:<br>
But I do not go there, and sometimes<br>
I think that the train could not carry me there,<br>
And it's possible, maybe,<br>
That it's farther than Asia or Africa,<br>
Or any voyager's harbour,<br>
Farther, farther, beyond recall....<br>
O even in memory!</blockquote>
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<a name="epitold"></a><h3>Epitaph in Old Mode</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The leaves fall gently on the grass,<br>
And all the willow trees and poplar trees and elder trees<br>
That bend above her where she sleeps,<br>
O all the willow trees, the willow trees<br>
Breathe sighs above her tomb.<br><br>
O pause and pity as you pass.<br>
She loved so tenderly, so quietly, so hopelessly;<br>
And sometimes comes one here and weeps — <br>
She loved so tenderly, so tenderly,<br>
And never told them whom.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="sonsq"></a><h3>Sonnet</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>There was an Indian, who had known no change,<br>
Who strayed content along a sunlit beach<br>
Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange<br>
Commingled noise: looked up; and gasped for speech.<br>
For in the bay, where nothing was before,<br>
Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes,<br>
With bellying cloths on poles, and not one oar,<br>
And fluttering coloured signs and clambering crews.<br><br>
And he, in fear, this naked man alone,<br>
His fallen hands forgetting all their shells,<br>
His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone,<br>
And stared, and saw, and did not understand,<br>
Columbus's doom-burdened caravels<br>
Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="birdsq"></a><h3>The Birds</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Within mankind's duration, so they say,<br>
Khephren and Ninus lived but yesterday.<br>
Asia had no name till man was old<br>
And long had learned the use of iron and gold;<br>
And æons had passed, when the first corn was planted,<br>
Since first the use of syllables was granted.<br><br>
Men were on earth while climates slowly swung,<br>
Fanning wide zones to heat and cold, and long<br>
Subsidence turned great continents to sea,<br>
And seas dried up, dried up interminably,<br>
Age after age; enormous seas were dried<br>
Amid wastes of land. And the last monsters died.<br><br>
Earth wore another face. O since that prime<br>
Man with how many works has sprinkled time!<br>
Hammering, hewing, digging tunnels, roads;<br>
Building ships, temples, multiform abodes.<br>
How, for his body's appetites, his toils<br>
Have conquered all earth's products, all her soils;<br>
And in what thousand thousand shapes of art<br>
He has tried to find a language for his heart!<br><br>
Never at rest, never content or tired:<br>
Insatiate wanderer, marvellously fired,<br>
Most grandly piling and piling into the air<br>
Stones that will topple or arch he knows not where.<br><br>
And yet did I, this spring, think it more strange,<br>
More grand, more full of awe, than all that change,<br>
And lovely and sweet and touching unto tears,<br>
That through man's chronicled and unchronicled years,<br>
And even into that unguessable beyond <br>
The water-hen has nested by a pond, <br>
Weaving dry flags, into a beaten floor,<br>
The one sure product of her only lore.<br>
Low on a ledge above the shadowed water<br>
Then, when she heard no men, as nature taught her,<br>
Plashing around with busy scarlet bill<br>
She built that nest, her nest, and builds it still.<br><br>
O let your strong imagination turn<br>
The great wheel backward, until Troy unburn,<br>
And then unbuild, and seven Troys below<br>
Rise out of death, and dwindle, and outflow,<br>
Till all have passed, and none has yet been there:<br>
Back, ever back. Our birds still crossed the air;<br>
Beyond our myriad changing generations<br>
Still built, unchanged, their known inhabitations.<br>
A million years before Atlantis was<br>
Our lark sprang from some hollow in the grass,<br>
Some old soft hoof-print in a tussock's shade;<br>
And the wood-pigeon's smooth snow-white eggs were laid,<br>
High, amid green pines' sunset-coloured shafts,<br>
And rooks their villages of twiggy rafts<br>
Set on the tops of elms, where elms grew then,<br>
And still the thumbling tit and perky wren<br>
Popped through the tiny doors of cosy balls<br>
And the blackbird lined with moss his high-built walls;<br>
A round mud cottage held the thrush's young,<br>
And straws from the untidy sparrow's hung.<br>
And, skimming forktailed in the evening air,<br>
When man first was were not the martens there?<br>
Did not those birds some human shelter crave,<br>
And stow beneath the cornice of his cave<br>
Their dry tight cups of clay? And from each door<br>
Peeped on a morning wiseheads three or four.<br><br>
Yes, daw and owl, curlew and crested hern,<br>
Kingfisher, mallard, water-rail and tern,<br>
Chaffinch and greenfinch, warbler, stonechat, ruff,<br>
Pied wagtail, robin, fly-catcher and chough,<br>
Missel-thrush, magpie, sparrow-hawk, and jay,<br>
Built, those far ages gone, in this year's way.<br>
And the first man who walked the cliffs of Rame,<br>
As I this year, looked down and saw the same<br>
Blotches of rusty red on ledge and cleft<br>
With grey-green spots on them, while right and left<br>
A dizzying tangle of gulls were floating and flying,<br>
Wheeling and crossing and darting, crying and crying,<br>
Circling and crying, over and over and over,<br>
Crying with swoop and hover and fall and recover.<br>
And below on a rock against the grey sea fretted,<br>
Pipe-necked and stationary and silhouetted,<br>
Cormorants stood in a wise, black, equal row<br>
Above the nests and long blue eggs we know.<br><br>
O delicate chain over all the ages stretched,<br>
O dumb tradition from what far darkness fetched:<br>
Each little architect with its one design<br>
Perpetual, fixed and right in stuff and line,<br>
Each little ministrant who knows one thing,<br>
One learned rite to celebrate the spring.<br>
Whatever alters else on sea or shore,<br>
These are unchanging: man must still explore.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="silentwj">W. J. Turner</a></h2><br>
<h3>Silence</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>It was bright day and all the trees were still<br>
In the deep valley, and the dim Sun glowed;<br>
The clay in hard-baked fire along the hill<br>
Leapt through dark trunks to apples green and gold,<br>
Smooth, hard and cold, they shone like lamps of stone:<br><br>
They were bright bubbles bursting from the trees,<br>
Swollen and still among the dark green boughs;<br>
On their bright skins the shadows of the leaves<br>
Seemed the faint ghosts of summers long since gone,<br>
Faint ghosts of ghosts, the dreams of ghostly eyes.<br><br>
There was no sound between those breathless hills.<br>
Only the dim Sun hung there, nothing moved;<br>
The thronged, massed, crowded multitude of leaves<br>
Hung like dumb tongues that loll and gasp for air:<br>
The grass was thick and still, between the trees.<br><br>
There were big apples lying on the ground,<br>
Shining, quite still, as though they had been stunned<br>
By some great violent spirit stalking through,<br>
Leaving a deep and supernatural calm<br>
Round a dead beetle upturned in a furrow.<br><br>
A valley filled with dark, quiet, leaf-thick trees,<br>
Loaded with green, cold, faintly shining suns;<br>
And in the sky a great dim burning disc! — <br>
Madness it is to watch these twisted trunks<br>
And to see nothing move and hear no sound!<br><br>
Let's make a noise, Hey!... Hey!... Hullo! Hullo!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="kentwar"></a><h3>Kent in War</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The pebbly brook is cold to-night,<br>
Its water soft as air,<br>
A clear, cold, crystal-bodied wind<br>
Shadowless and bare,<br>
Leaping and running in this world<br>
Where dark-horned cattle stare:<br><br>
Where dark-horned cattle stare, hoof-firm<br>
On the dark pavements of the sky,<br>
And trees are mummies swathed in sleep<br>
And small dark hills crowd wearily;<br>
Soft multitudes of snow-grey clouds<br>
Without a sound march by.<br><br>
Down at the bottom of the road<br>
I smell the woody damp<br>
Of that cold spirit in the grass,<br>
And leave my hill-top camp — <br>
Its long gun pointing in the sky — <br>
And take the Moon for lamp.<br><br>
I stop beside the bright cold glint<br>
Of that thin spirit in the grass,<br>
So gay it is, so innocent!<br>
I watch its sparkling footsteps pass<br>
Lightly from smooth round stone to stone,<br>
Hid in the dew-hung grass.<br><br>
My lamp shines in the globes of dew,<br>
And leaps into that crystal wind<br>
Running along the shaken grass<br>
To each dark hole that it can find — <br>
The crystal wind, the Moon my lamp,<br>
Have vanished in a wood that's blind.<br><br>
High lies my small, my shadowy camp,<br>
Crowded about by small dark hills;<br>
With sudden small white flowers the sky<br>
Above the woods' dark greenness fills;<br>
And hosts of dark-browed, muttering trees<br>
In trance the white Moon stills.<br><br>
I move among their tall grey forms,<br>
A thin moon-glimmering, wandering Ghost,<br>
Who takes his lantern through the world<br>
In search of life that he has lost,<br>
While watching by that long lean gun<br>
Up on his small hill post.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="talksold"></a><h3>Talking with Soldiers</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The mind of the people is like mud,<br>
From which arise strange and beautiful things,<br>
But mud is none the less mud,<br>
Though it bear orchids and prophesying Kings,<br>
Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings.<br><br>
It has found form and colour and light,<br>
The cold glimmer of the ice-wrapped Poles;<br>
It has called a far-off glow Arcturus,<br>
And some pale weeds, lilies of the valley.<br><br>
It has imagined Virgil, Helen and Cassandra;<br>
The sack of Troy, and the weeping for Hector — <br>
Rearing stark up 'mid all this beauty<br>
In the thick, dull neck of Ajax.<br><br>
There is a dark Pine in Lapland,<br>
And the great, figured Horn of the Reindeer,<br>
Moving soundlessly across the snow,<br>
Is its twin brother, double-dreamed,<br>
In the mind of a far-off people.<br><br>
It is strange that a little mud<br>
Should echo with sounds, syllables, and letters,<br>
Should rise up and call a mountain Popocatapetl,<br>
And a green-leafed wood Oleander.<br><br>
These are the ghosts of invisible things;<br>
There is no Lapland, no Helen and no Hector,<br>
And the Reindeer is a darkening of the brain,<br>
And Oleander is but Oleander.<br><br>
Mary Magdalena and the vine Lachryma Christi <br>
Were like ghosts up the ghost of Vesuvius, <br>
As I sat and drank wine with the soldiers,<br>
As I sat in the Inn on the mountain,<br>
Watching the shadows in my mind.<br><br>
The mind of the people is like mud,<br>
Where are the imperishable things,<br>
The ghosts that flicker in the brain — <br>
Silent women, orchids, and prophesying Kings,<br>
Dreams, trees, and water's bright babblings!</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="songwj"></a><h3>Song</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>Gently, sorrowfully sang the maid<br>
Sowing the ploughed field over,<br>
And her song was only:<br>
'Come, O my lover!'<br><br>
Strangely, strangely shone the light,<br>
Stilly wound the river:<br>
'Thy love is a dead man,<br>
He'll come back never.'<br><br>
Sadly, sadly passed the maid<br>
The fading dark hills over;<br>
Still her song far, far away said:<br>
'Come, O my lover!'</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="princwj"></a><h3>The Princess</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>The stone-grey roses by the desert's rim<br>
Are soft-edged shadows on the moonlit sand,<br>
Grey are the broken walls of Khangavar,<br>
That haunt of nightingales, whose voices are<br>
Fountains that bubble in the dream-soft Moon.<br><br>
Shall the Gazelles with moonbeam pale bright feet<br>
Entering the vanished gardens sniff the air — <br>
Some scent may linger of that ancient time,<br>
Musician's song, or poet's passionate rhyme,<br>
The Princess dead, still wandering love-sick there.<br><br>
A Princess pale and cold as mountain snow,<br>
In cool, dark chambers sheltered from the sun,<br>
With long dark lashes and small delicate hands:<br>
All Persia sighed to kiss her small red mouth<br>
Until they buried her in shifting sand.<br><br>
And the Gazelles shall flit by in the Moon<br>
And never shake the frail Tree's lightest leaves,<br>
And moonlight roses perfume the pale Dawn<br>
Until the scarlet life that left her lips<br>
Gathers its shattered beauty in the sky.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="peacwj"></a><h3>Peace</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>In low chalk hills the great King's body lay,<br>
And bright streams fell, tinkling like polished tin,<br>
As though they carried off his armoury,<br>
And spread it glinting through his wide domain.<br><br>
Old bearded soldiers sat and gazed dim-eyed<br>
At the strange brightness flowing under trees,<br>
And saw his sword flashing in ancient battles,<br>
And drank, and swore, and trembled helplessly.<br><br>
And bright-haired maidens dipped their cold white arms,<br>
And drew them glittering colder, whiter, still;<br>
The sky sparkled like the dead King's blue eye<br>
Upon the sentries that were dead as trees.<br><br>
His shining shield lay in an old grey town,<br>
And white swans sailed so still and dreamfully,<br>
They seemed the thoughts of those white, peaceful hills<br>
Mirrored that day within his glazing eyes.<br><br>
And in the square the pale cool butter sold,<br>
Cropped from the daisies sprinkled on the downs,<br>
And old wives cried their wares, like queer day owls,<br>
Piercing the old men's sad and foolish dreams.<br><br>
And Time flowed on till all the realm forgot<br>
The great King lying in the low chalk hills;<br>
Only the busy water dripping through<br>
His hard white bones knew of him lying there.</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<a name="deathwj"></a><h3>Death</h3>
<br>
<blockquote>When I am dead a few poor souls shall grieve<br>
As I grieved for my brother long ago.<br>
Scarce did my eyes grow dim,<br>
I had forgotten him;<br>
I was far-off hearing the spring winds blow,<br>
And many summers burned<br>
When, though still reeling with my eyes aflame,<br>
I heard that faded name<br>
Whispered one Spring amid the hurrying world<br>
From which, years gone, he turned.<br><br>
I looked up at my windows and I saw<br>
The trees, thin spectres sucked forth by the moon.<br>
The air was very still<br>
Above a distant hill;<br>
It was the hour of night's full silver moon.<br>
'O are thou there my brother?' my soul cried;<br>
And all the pale stars down bright rivers wept,<br>
As my heart sadly crept<br>
About the empty hills, bathed in that light<br>
That lapped him when he died.<br><br>
Ah! it was cold, so cold; do I not know<br>
How dead my heart on that remembered day!<br>
Clear in a far-away place<br>
I see his delicate face<br>
Just as he called me from my solitary play,<br>
Giving into my hands a tiny tree.<br>
We planted it in the dark, blossomless ground<br>
Gravely, without a sound;<br>
Then back I went and left him standing by<br>
His birthday gift to me.<br>
<br>
In that far land perchance it quietly grows<br>
Drinking the rain, making a pleasant shade;<br>
Birds in its branches fly<br>
Out of the fathomless sky<br>
Where worlds of circling light arise and fade.<br>
Blindly it quivers in the bright flood of day,<br>
Or drowned in multitudinous shouts of rain<br>
Glooms o'er the dark-veiled plain — <br>
Buried below, the ghost that's in his bones<br>
Dreams in the sodden clay.<br><br>
And, while he faded, drunk with beauty's eyes<br>
I kissed bright girls and laughed deep in dumb trees,<br>
That stared fixt in the air<br>
Like madmen in despair<br>
Gaped up from earth with the escaping breeze.<br>
I saw earth's exaltation slowly creep<br>
Out of their myriad sky-embracing veins.<br>
I laughed along the lanes,<br>
Meeting Death riding in from the hollow seas<br>
Through black-wreathed woods asleep.<br><br>
I laughed, I swaggered on the cold hard ground — <br>
Through the grey air trembled a falling wave — <br>
'Thou'rt pale, O Death!' I cried,<br>
Mocking him in my pride;<br>
And passing I dreamed not of that lonely grave,<br>
But of leaf-maidens whose pale, moon-like hands<br>
Above the tree-foam waved in the icy air,<br>
Sweeping with shining hair<br>
Through the green-tinted sky, one moment fled<br>
Out of immortal lands.<br><br>
One windless Autumn night the Moon came out <br>
In a white sea of cloud, a field of snow; <br>
In darkness shaped of trees,<br>
I sank upon my knees<br>
And watched her shining, from the small wood below — <br>
Faintly Death flickered in an owl's far cry — -<br>
We floated soundless in the great gulf of space,<br>
Her light upon my face — <br>
Immortal, shining in that dark wood I knelt<br>
And knew I could not die.<br><br>
And knew I could not die — O Death, didst thou<br>
Heed my vain glory, standing pale by thy dead?<br>
There is a spirit who grieves<br>
Amid earth's dying leaves;<br>
Was't thou that wept beside my brother's bed?<br>
For I did never mourn nor heed at all<br>
Him passing on his temporal elm-wood bier;<br>
I never shed a tear.<br>
The drooping sky spread grey-winged through my soul,<br>
While stones and earth did fall.<br><br>
That sound rings down the years — I hear it yet — <br>
All earthly life's a winding funeral — <br>
And though I never wept,<br>
But into the dark coach stept,<br>
Dreaming by night to answer the blood's sweet call,<br>
She who stood there, high-breasted, with small, wise lips,<br>
And gave me wine to drink and bread to eat,<br>
Has not more steadfast feet,<br>
But fades from my arms as fade from mariners' eyes<br>
The sea's most beauteous ships.<br><br>
The trees and hills of earth were once as close<br>
As my own brother, they are becoming dreams<br>
And shadows in my eyes;<br>
More dimly lies<br>
Guaya deep in my soul, the coastline gleams<br>
Faintly along the darkening crystalline seas.<br>
Glimmering and lovely still, 'twill one day go;<br>
The surging dark will flow<br>
Over my hopes and joys, and blot out all<br>
Earth's hills and skies and trees.<br><br>
I shall look up one night and see the Moon<br>
For the last time shining above the hills,<br>
And thou, silent, wilt ride<br>
Over the dark hillside.<br>
'Twill be, perchance, the time of daffodils — <br>
<i>'How come those bright immortals in the woods?<br>
Their joy being young, didst thou not drag them all<br>
Into dark graves ere Fall?'</i><br>
Shall life thus haunt me, wondering, as I go<br>
To thy deep solitudes?<br><br>
There is a figure with a down-turned torch<br>
Carved on a pillar in an olden time,<br>
A calm and lovely boy<br>
Who comes not to destroy<br>
But to lead age back to its golden prime.<br>
Thus did an antique sculptor draw thee, Death,<br>
With smooth and beauteous brow and faint sweet smile,<br>
Not haggard, gaunt and vile,<br>
And thou perhaps art thus to whom men may,<br>
Unvexed, give up their breath.<br><br>
But in my soul thou sittest like a dream<br>
Among earth's mountains, by her dim-coloured seas;<br>
A wild unearthly Shape<br>
In thy dark-glimmering cape,<br>
Piping a tune of wavering melodies,<br>
Thou sittest, ay, thou sittest at the feast<br>
Of my brief life among earth's bright-wreathed flowers,<br>
Staining the dancing hours<br>
With sombre gleams until, abrupt, thou risest<br>
And all, at once, is ceased.
</blockquote>
<br>
<p align="right"><a href="#toc">Contents</a> / <a href="#cp4">Contents, p. 4</a></p><hr width="50%" align="right"><br><br>
<h2><a name="biblio">Bibliography</a></h2><br>
<i>The Bibliography for this volume will be available soon, in an updated version of this file which will replace the current file on Project Gutenberg.</i>
<br>
<br>
<b><i>end of text</i></b>
<br>
<br>
<hr><br><br>
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<pre>
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